My good angel prevailed. By mere accident, my Bible lay upon the iron chest. I eagerly seized the volume, and sought in the first page I should open, an omen that should decide my fate, and my eye glanced upon the words already quoted--"Be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and harmless as doves." I closed the book and sat down, and tried to shape the words to suit my present state. What better advice could I follow? from what higher authority could I derive sounder counsel? Did it not suit completely my case? Harrison had disappeared. I was alone and friendless in the house of the oppressor. Did I follow the suggestions of my own heart, I should either destroy myself, or quit the protection of Mr. Moncton's roof for ever. "But then," said reason, "if you take the first step, you are guilty of an unpardonable sin, and by destroying yourself, further the sinister views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard labour, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar on your future advancement. In a few months you will be of age, and your own master. Bear these evils patiently a little longer--wait and watch: you never can regain your lost name and inheritance by throwing yourself friendless upon the world." Determined to adopt, and strictly to adhere to this line of conduct, and leave the rest to Providence, I washed the traces of tears from my face and returned to the private office. Here I found Mr. Moncton engaged with papers of consequence. He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. "Are we friends, Geoffrey?" "That depends upon circumstances" said I. "How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer," he replied. "It is your own fault that we ever were otherwise." "I will try and think you my friend for the time to come." He seemed more amused than surprised at this concession, and for some time we both wrote on in silence. A tap at the door, and one of the clerks handed in a letter. Mr. Moncton examined the post-mark and eagerly opened it up. While reading, his countenance underwent one of those remarkable changes I had on several occasions witnessed of late, and which seemed so foreign to his nature. Suddenly crushing the letter tightly in his hand, he flung it from him to the floor, and spurned it with his foot, exclaiming as he did so, with a fiend-like curl of the lip: "So would I serve the writer were he here!" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low confidential tone, he said: "The writer of that letter is unconsciously making your fortune, Geoffrey. This son of mine has acted in a base, ungrateful manner to me--in a manner which I can never forget or forgive. If you conduct yourself prudently, you may become dearer to me than this wicked young man." "I should be sorry to rise on my cousin's ruin. I would rather gain your respect on any other terms." This remark made him wince.