A few days after the execution, Mr. William Friend called on me just after breakfast, accompanied by the bereaved husband. I never saw so changed a man. All the warm kindliness of his nature had vanished, and was replaced by a gloomy fierce austerity, altogether painful to contemplate. "Well, sir," said he, as he barely touched my proffered hand, "they have killed her, you see, spite of all you could say or do. It much availed me, too, that I had helped to win their boasted victories;" and he laughed with savage bitterness. "Henry--Henry!" exclaimed William Friend, in a reproving accent. "Well, well, sir," rejoined Mason, impatiently, "you are a good man, and have of course your own notions on these matters; I also have mine. Or, perhaps, you think it is only the blood of the rich and great which, shed unjustly, brings forth the iron harvest? Forgive me," he added, checking himself. "I respect you both; but my heart is turned to stone. You do not know--none ever knew but I--how kind, how loving, how gentle was that poor long-suffering girl." He turned from us to hide the terrible agony which convulsed him. "Henry," said Mr. Friend, taking him kindly by the hand, "we pity thee sincerely, as thou knowest; but thy bitter, revengeful expressions are unchristian, sinful. The authorities whom thou, not for the first time, railest on so wildly, acted, be sure of it, from a sense of duty; a mistaken one, in my opinion, doubtless; still"-- "Say no more, sir," interrupted Mason. "We differ in opinion upon the subject. And now, gentlemen, farewell. I wished to see you, sir, before I left this country forever, to thank you for your kind, though fruitless exertions. Mr. Friend has promised to be steward for poor Willy of all I can remit for his use. Farewell! God bless you both!" He was gone!