He had glanced slightly at some of the scattered papers, and then recoiled from prying into matters which concerned him not. One scrap, however, freshly written upon, caught his eye, and he found it to contain a few stanzas of verse, evidently penned long ago, and some incoherent attempts to continue them, which must have been made that very night. He took possession of this document, in order to produce it, if necessary; and he now showed it to his friend. And Randolph, in reading the following melancholy lines, the older portion of the writing, thought with shuddering pity of the whisper, once addressed by Everope to himself, which had called forth his offer of assistance. 'Tis sad to think of hopes destroyed, Of prospects lost that once seemed fair, Of hours in waste or vice employed, Of talents as _that_ fig-tree bare. Where ruin watches the closed door, And crouches on the cold hearth-stone, Where home's a word of love no more, And friends or kindred there are none; What though the door exclude the wind? What though the roof may shield from rain? No winds like those that tear the mind, No storms like those that rend the brain. While stern remorse unfolds her scroll, And points to every damning word, Showing the late-repenting soul All it has thought, done, seen, or heard-- Ay, press thy hands upon thine eyes, Ay, hear not, feel not, if thou wilt! Still memory to conscience cries, Still every heart-quake throbs of guilt. Think over all thou might'st have been, Contrast it then with all thou art: A retrospect so dark and keen May well appal thy shuddering heart. Woe for the days when childhood knelt At night and morn its prayer to say; Breathed worship such as childhood felt, And loved the vows it learned to pay! But now--but now--can phrenzy pray? To Heaven shall desperation cry? Madness prepares destruction's way-- Escape is none--despair, and die! "That," said Rereworth, when Randolph gave him back the paper, "is the superficial penitence, which never does any good. It is regret for the effects of the fault, not for the fault itself. In true repentance there is always hope, but in such feelings as are here portrayed there is little else than despair. Hence this miserable end." "Yet," Randolph urged, with some discontent at the moralizing of his friend, "he seems to have been meant for better things." "Few men are not," answered Rereworth. "Few men are not meant for better things than they achieve. Short-coming is the rule, and fulfilling the exception. But a truce with what sounds misanthropical. Here we are at Winter's." The lawyer heard of the suicide with much commiseration.