Low sank the Sun adown the Western Sky! Each cherish'd hope had prov'd its vanity! Now neither Earth, nor Heaven was mine. Rejected, sad, abandon'd, and forlorn; Of God it seem'd not lov'd; of Hell, the scorn! No hope, or human or Divine, Brighten'd my dark, cold, doubting, wretched mind; The world, a wilderness; Heaven's self, unkind! 'Blackness of darkness' seem'd my way: Slow struck the ELEVENTH! Thy light around me broke! And deep, unto my soul, these words were spoke: 'Why stand ye idle all the day?' 'Enter and work through the waning hour!'-- Lord of the Vineyard! grant Thy servant power To labour, love Thee, and obey. Let every thought, plan, word, deed, wish, be Thine! Thine be all honour, glory, praise divine, And let thy pardon close my day! THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER XXVIII. On the day but one after Rust's death, Mr. Kornicker was very busy in his office. His coat was off; his hat was on a chair, and in it was his snuff-box, a black silk neckcloth, and a white handkerchief, not a little discolored by the presence of snuff and the absence of water. In one corner of the room lay a confused heap, consisting of bed, bedding, and various odds and ends of wearing apparel; and from these Mr. Kornicker, after due reflection and calculation as to the order in which to make his choice, selected article after article. First, he spread upon the floor his counterpane, then his blanket, then a sheet not a little akin in appearance to his handkerchief, and then his bed: upon these he piled his apparel, in a confused heap, and proceeded to roll the whole into a large ball, which he secured with a piece of rope. 'Now then, the moving's begun,' said he, opening the door and rolling the bundle into the entry. 'The premises are ready for the next tenant.' Having brushed his knees with the palm of his hands, and then dusted his hands by knocking them together, he put on his neckcloth, coat, and hat; pocketed his snuff-box and handkerchief, walked into the entry, locked the door, put the key over it, as he had always been in the habit of doing; seated himself upon his bundle, with his back leaning against the wall; and immediately lapsed into a fit of deep abstraction, which he occasionally relieved by kicking his heels against the floor, shaking his head, in a sudden and emphatic manner, or inhaling his breath rapidly and violently, producing a sound blending the harmonious qualities of a snort and a whistle.