"And now I have told you all, sir, that concerns her early history—at least all that I know. Some time after my wife's death, evil reports got abroad concerning me. It was said that my brutality had produced her death; and my son was a living reproach against me. No one would employ me—no one would lodge in my house. It was then that I accepted the office of Public Executioner,—to save myself from starving, and to give bread to my own son and the little orphan girl. By degrees my temper, already ruined by the conduct of my wife, became confirmed in its ferocity and cruel callousness. I grew brutal—savage—inhuman. I felt the degradation of my calling—I saw that I was shunned by all the world. I was looked upon as a monster who had murdered his wife and made his son deformed;—but the provocation and the circumstances were never mentioned to palliate the enormity of that double crime. At length I heard all the reproaches, and did not take the trouble to state facts in order to justify myself. But all this was enough to brutalize me,—especially when added to the duties of my new calling. In time I even began to ill-treat that poor orphan girl whom I had at first looked upon as my own child. But, bad as I have been towards her when I thought that she encouraged my son to thwart my will,—shamefully as I used her at times, I never would have abandoned her;—for when she thought that I turned her out of my house the day she went to Mr. Tracy's, it was only my brutal way of letting her go to a place which I knew would be creditable to her, and which, by what she told me, I saw she wished to take. Then I thought within myself, '_Yes, even she will now gladly leave me_;'—and, in order to conceal what I felt at that idea—and I _did_ feel deeply—I took refuge in my own brutalized temper. But I sent her round all her things in the evening—not forgetting her work-box, which I knew contained the fragment that her poor mother wrote upon her death-bed. Moreover, when she came to see me, I received her with no constrained kindness; for I always liked her—even when I ill-used her;—and I was sorry to have parted with her." "The world, my good friend, has not altogether read your heart correctly," said Richard. "Thank you, sir,—thank you for that assurance," exclaimed Smithers; "and when you _good friend_ me, sir—you, who are so noble-hearted, so generous, so truly grand in your humanity—I could burst into tears." "If my example please you," said Markham, kindly, "you will make me happy by profiting by it. Oh! you shall yet live long to convince the world that the human heart never can be so deadened to all good feelings as to be beyond redemption!" "I do not think I shall live to an old age, sir," observed Smithers, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper: "I have already had one warning!" "One warning!" repeated Richard, surprised at this strange announcement.