"But suppose there was neither. Suppose there was neither courage, nor goodness, nor determination, nor perseverance. Suppose the man had lived a life of indolent self-indulgence, until, squeeze him as you would, there was not one drop of virtue left in him. Crush him, as fate is crushing me at this moment; and I tell you, you will get nothing out of him. Nothing--nothing. He is more worthless than the most degraded beast. Better to die as a beast, and go where the beasts go." She turned ghastly pale at this terrible speech--but, "No," she faltered out--"no--no!" "You will not have me die, then?" he said, pursuing the same heartless tone; but it was forced, if that were any excuse for him. "Then you prefer the other scheme? I thought, he went on, "to have supped with Pluto to-night; but you prefer that it should be on board an American steamer." "I do," she gasped, rather than uttered. "You do--you are sure you do?" said he, suddenly assuming a tone of greater seriousness. "You wish, Ella, to preserve this worthless life? Have you considered at what expense?" "Expense! How! Who could think of that?" she answered. "Oh! not the expense of money, child--at the expense of the little thing called 'honor.' Listen to me, Ella,"--and again he took her arm, and turned her poor distracted face, to his. "You see I am ready to die--at least, was ready to die--but I have no wish to die. Worthless as this wretched life of mine it, it has its excitements, and its enjoyments, to me. When I made up my mind to end it, I assure you, child, I did the one only generous thing I ever was guilty of in my life; for I did it for you girls' sakes, as much or more than for my own. Suicide, some think a wicked thing--I don't. How I got my life, I don't know; the power of getting rid of it is mine, and I hold myself at liberty to make use of it or not, at my own good pleasure. As for my ever living to pay my debt, it's folly to talk of it. I have not, and never shall acquire, the means. I have neither the virtue nor the industry. I tell you, I am utterly good for nothing. I am a rascal--a scoundrel, and a despicable knave. I played for a large sum--meaning to take it if I won it--and not being able to pay, I lost it--and that, I have still sense of honor enough left to call a rascally proceeding. Now there is one way, and one way only, of cancelling all this in the eye of the world. When a man destroys himself, the world is sorry for him--half inclined to forgive him--to say the least of it, absolves his family. But--if he turn tail--and sneak away to America, and has so little sense"--he went on, passionately and earnestly--"of all that is noble, and faithful, and honorable, that he can bear to drag on a disgraced, contemptible existence, like a mean, pitiful, cowardly, selfish wretch, as he is--why, then--then--he is utterly blasted, and blackened over with infamy! Nobody feels for him, nobody pities