“Revengeful!” echoed Wilton, with a hiss. “What! do you think I can forget the years of grinding, torturing poverty he has caused me? Do you think I can wipe out, with a wave of the hand, the recollection of the last effort of his accursed cupidity--the act which tore me from my children, and hurried me to the horrors of a debtor’s prison? Nathan! Nathan?” he cried, clutching at his companion’s wrist, and speaking in a low, guttural tone--an evidence of the depth of the emotion under which he laboured--“can I consign his acts to oblivion when I look round these walls--when I pace these chambers--when I wander in the grounds yonder, among the flowers and the trees, and miss _her_ companionship, her gentle presence, who made this abode a Paradise--whose absence shrouds it in intense gloom?” “No--no--no!” almost groaned Nathan, shrouding his eyes with his hands. “She reigned here a queen of light, of joy; the music of her voice, the magic of her sweet and tender beaming eyes, made Harleydale a heaven. Was she not thrust from hence?--was she not crammed into a den of wretchedness--into a foul, impure atmosphere?--compelled to endure privation, want, rags? By whom?--by whom?--answer me that.” “Oh! that I had earlier known whither you had transported yourselves when you quitted this!” moaned Nathan, evidently in anguish at the picture Wilton was placing before his eyes. “Was it not Grahame!” continued Wilton, fiercely; “did he not juggle me out of my signature to bonds that he might utterly destroy me, when he knew that she--a very flower, cultured only in the tenderest carefulness, sheltered from the ruder atmosphere of human society--had been suddenly hurled where the blasts of poverty and degradation were blighting her, making her pine, fade, droop away out of life. She--my soul, my spirit, the immortal part of my being--who, having gone from me, leaves this frame a machine, this world an expanse of murky mist, penetrated with only one gleam, that bright spot in futurity, When, released from this miserable shackle, this valueless body, I shall join her angel spirit! Did he not slay her?--curse him! Did he not destroy her with his damned impenitent obduracy? Does not her spirit shriek for revenge?” Wilton flung his arms up in the air, and almost screamed these last words. Nathan Gomer rose up, and, in a tone of solemnity which thrilled through Wilton’s frame, exclaimed-- “No!” He paused for a moment, convulsed with emotion. Then he proceeded--