"He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle. Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with this woman here--Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dim perception of his true character, and because she was interested in another. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed to us, that she loved Henry Moreland--loved him purely and unselfishly, with no wish but for his happiness, and no hope of ever being any thing more to him than his mother's sewing-girl, to whom he extended some acts of kindness. But George Thorley, with the sharpness of jealousy, discovered her passion, which she supposed was hidden from mortal eyes, and conceived the brutal hate of a low nature against the young gentleman, who was ignorant alike of him and his sentiments. So far, no harm was done, and evil might never have come of it, for Henry Moreland moved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come in contact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy. An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor--not only to love her, but to look forward to the fortune and position which would be conferred by a marriage with her as something extremely desirable. He would not reconcile himself to the engagement which was formed between Miss Argyll and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad thoughts, which grew more bitter as their happiness became more apparent. Once, he was standing at the gate of this lawn, when the young couple passed him, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a dark look, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said, '_I hate him! I wish he were dead!_' Instantly, to his surprise and dismay, a voice replied, '_I'm with you there--you don't wish it so much as I do!_' The speaker was Thorley, who, passing, had been arrested by the young couple going out of the gate, and who had remained, also, gazing after them. It was an unfortunate coincidence. The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but he had betrayed himself, and the other knew it. He laughed impudently, as he sauntered on; but, presently, he returned and whispered, 'I wouldn't object to putting him out of the way, if I was well paid for it.' 'What do you mean?' inquired the other, angrily, and the response was, 'Just what I say. I hate him as bad as you do; you've got money, _or can get it_, and I can't. Pay me well for the job, and I'll put him out of your way so securely that he won't interfere with your plans any more.' The young gentleman affected to be, and perhaps was, indignant. The fellow went off, smirking; but his words left, as he thought they would, their poison behind. In less than a month from that time, the person had sought Thorley out, in his lurking-place in the city--for he had, you recollect, been driven from Blankville by the voice of public opinion--and had conferred with him upon the possibility of young