"Never for me," observed Gibbet, with a profound sigh. "Father does not cease to upbraid me for my conduct yesterday morning. But I could not help it. I went down to Newgate with the intention to do my best; but when I got there, and found myself face to face with the miserable wretch who was about to suffer,—when I saw his awful pale face, his wild glaring eyes, his distorted features, his quivering limbs,—and when I heard him murmur every other moment, '_O Lord! O Lord!_' in a tone scarcely audible and yet expressive of such intense anguish,—I could not lay a finger upon him! When my father gave me the twine to pinion him, it fell from my hands; and I believe I felt as much as the unfortunate man himself. Oh! heavens—his face will haunt me in my dreams as long as I live. I never shall forget it—it was so ghastly, so dreadful! I would not have had any thing to do with taking that man's life away—no, not for all the world. I did not see a criminal before me—I only saw a fellow-creature from whom _his_ fellow-creatures were about to take away something which God alone gave, and which God alone should have the right to recall. I thought of all this; and I was paralysed. And it was because my nature would not let me touch so much as the hem of that man's garment to do him harm, that my father upbraids and beats me. Oh! it is too cruel, Kate—it is too cruel to bear!" "It is, my poor cousin," answered the girl; "but let me entreat you to submit patiently—as patiently as you can. Times must change for you—as they have for me." These last words she uttered in a half-tone of self-reproach, as if she upbraided herself with having left her unfortunate cousin to the mercy of his brutal father. But how could she have done otherwise, poor girl? The conversation between that interesting young creature and the hump-back continued in pretty much the same strain for about half-an-hour, when Gibbet took leave of his cousin. "You will come and see me next Sunday, John," said Katharine, as she shook him warmly by the hand. "Next Sunday evening, dear Kate," he replied, and then departed. CHAPTER CXLVIII. THE OLD HAG'S INTRIGUE. On the morning after she had received the visit from the Reverend Reginald Tracy, the old hag rose early, muttering to herself, "I must lose no time—I must lose no time." She then proceeded to dress herself in her holiday attire, each article of which was purchased with the wages of her infamous trade. Female frailty—female shame had clothed the hag: female dishonour had produced her a warm gown, a fine shawl, and a new bonnet. When she was young she had lived by the sale of herself: now that she was old she lived by the sale of others. And she gloried in all the intrigues which she successfully worked out for those who employed her, as much as a sharp diplomatist triumphs in outwitting an astute antagonist.