"No, Faith. Yet unmanly as it is, let me lament the fate that makes me the instrument to execute the decrees of Heaven. I am a rod to attract the fires that consume, while itself rises unscathed amid the destruction." It seemed to Faith natural that her father should be affected by the death of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished in the attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressions exaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted not that soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order the sooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert his thoughts into another channel. "You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there to bless you for charities known only to themselves and you?" "Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those that fell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail will any charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only to convey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think you are my daughter." "And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having such a father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish these fancies from your mind!" "Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evil spirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence that blasts whatever it meets." So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of his daughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from the hook that held it, put it on and passed into the street. Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed free course to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments she recovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "to cry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, that shocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it is better he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here making himself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when he returns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears." Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunning the sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into an unfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing how it happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woods that skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as if attracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the scene of the late disaster. The walk and the solemn silence of the woods, in which no sound was heard except the cawing of a watchful crow, some sentinel placed to give notice of approaching danger to his companions, gradually subdued the excitement of his feelings. His pace, at first rapid, relaxed, the light began to play upon the clouds that brooded on his spirits, and he wondered at his fancies and his conduct.