Once in the street, Rust endeavored to bear up against his fortune. But he could not. His mind was confused, and all his thoughts were strange, fantastic and shadowy. He paused; dashed his hand impatiently against his forehead, and endeavored to shake off the spell. No, no! it would not leave him. Failure in his schemes! dishonor in his child! He could think of them, and of _them_ only. Once on this theme, his mind became more bewildered than ever; and yielding himself to its impulses, he fell into a slow pace, and sauntered on, with his chin bent down on his breast. From the thickly-settled parts of the town he went on, until he came to streets where the bustle and crowd were less; then to others, which were nearly deserted; then on he went, until he reached a quarter where the houses stood far apart, with vacant lots between them. Still he kept on. Then came fields, and cottages, and farm-houses, surrounded by tall trees. Still on he went, still wading through a mass of chaotic fancies, springing up, and reeling and flitting through his mind; shadows of things that had been, and might be; ghosts of the past; prophets of the future. He had become a very child. At last he stood on the bank of the river; and then for the first time he seemed to awaken from his trance. It was a glorious day, whose sunshine might have found its way even into his black heart. Oh! how soft, and mellow, and pure, the hurricane of the last night had left it! Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath to ripple the water, or to wave the long trailing locks of the hoary willows, which nodded over its banks. Rust looked about him, with a bewildered gaze, until his eye became fixed upon the water. 'It's very quiet, _very_ quiet,' said he; 'I wonder if a man, once engulfed in it, feels peace.' He pressed his hand to his breast, and muttered: '_Here_ it is gone forever!' He loitered listlessly on, under the trees. His step was feeble; and he stooped and tottered, as if decrepid. He stopped again, shook his head, and went on, looking upon the ground, and at times long and wistfully at the river. An old man, leaning on a stout cane, who had been watching him, at last came up. Raising his hat, as he did so, he said: 'You seem, like myself, to be an admirer of this noble river?' Rust looked up at him sharply, ready to gather in his energies, if necessary. But there was nothing in the mild, dignified face of the speaker to invite suspicion, and he replied in a feeble tone: 'Yes, yes; it is a noble river.' 'I've seen many, in my long life,' said the other, 'and have never met its equal.' Rust paused, as if he did not hear him, and then continued in a musing tone: 'How smooth it is! how calm! Many have found peace there, who never found it in life. Drowning's an easy death, I'm told.' The stranger replied gravely, and even sternly: