“God never forsakes the greatest criminal, being penitent. But you, Everage! I cannot understand! I cannot believe you to be a criminal,” answered Alexander, unable to recover from his consternation, and mentally running over the sins most likely to be committed by a poor gentleman under the influence of overpowering temptation. Was it embezzlement? swindling? No, he could have had no opportunity of dabbling in either of these. Was it forgery? Yes, it was most likely forgery. The poor usher had probably, under the pressure of terrible want, forged his employer’s name to a check, or a note, or something of the sort, and was now dying of remorse and shame, and perhaps also of terror. And Alick resolved to help him, if help were possible. “Everage,” he asked kindly, “do you wish to confide in me?” “I wish to CONFESS to you, since the offense was committed against you,” groaned the heart-broken man. “Against _me_?” exclaimed Alexander, in a tone of surprise that was not without pleasure; for he instantly thought—“Oh, if he has only forged _my_ name to a cheque or a note, or anything of the sort, it will be perfectly easy to save him. It will only be for me to take up the paper without saying anything about it; or, at worst, to acknowledge the signature.” Then, speaking softly, he said: “Tell me everything, Everage, freely as one sinner speaking to another; for I, too, have sinned too deeply to have any sort of right to judge harshly. Speak freely, Everage.” Still for a moment the poor gentleman remained silent, he knew that, after having told all, his bosom would feel somewhat relieved, yet he could scarcely bring himself to utter his own shame. “I will tell you everything. And the more willingly because reparation is still in my power.” “But, Everage, if such reparation should in any way distress you, it need not be made. Nay, if the confession itself will distress you, withhold it, my friend. If, as you say, the offense is against me, you need not tell it; and believe me, neither you nor any one else shall ever hear of it,” said Alick, kindly. “Every gentle, generous word you speak stabs my heart like a reproach. I must tell you all. It will shame me, but it will relieve me to do so. Reparation must be made; and it will not distress but comfort me to make it; nay, it will almost do away my guilt. It is a measure that I had already resolved upon. I was only waiting for my poor wife to get over her impending _accouchement_ before carrying it into effect; for in my poor Belle’s present critical condition, the excitement of a criminal trial would surely kill her. And thus my little girls would be bereft of both parents.” “Everage, you talk wildly! If the offense is against me, it is already condoned. You may reveal it or not as you please. For myself, I do not see the need of your doing so.”