“Sir, you have been very ill-treated, I perceive. I must wish you good-day; I have an engagement in the City. I cannot help you back to your L100, but accept this trifle (a L5 note) for your loss of time in calling” (ringing the bell violently). “Door,--show out this gentleman.” That evening Mr. Gotobed wrote at length to Guy Darrell, informing him that, after great pains and prolonged research, he had been so fortunate as to ascertain that the strolling player and the little girl whom Mr. Darrell had so benevolently requested him to look up were very bad characters, and had left the country for the United States, as happily for England bad characters were wont to do. That letter reached Guy Darrell when he was far away, amidst the forlorn pomp of some old Italian city, and Lionel’s tale of the little girl not very fresh in his gloomy thoughts. Naturally, he supposed that the boy had been duped by a pretty face and his own inexperienced kindly heart. And so, and so,--why, so end all the efforts of men who entrust to others the troublesome execution of humane intentions! The scales of earthly justice are poised in their quivering equilibrium, not by huge hundred-weights, but by infinitesimal grains, needing the most wary caution, the most considerate patience, the most delicate touch, to arrange or readjust. Few of our errors, national or individual, come from the design to be unjust; most of them from sloth, or incapacity to grapple with the difficulties of being just. Sins of commission may not, perhaps, shock the retrospect of conscience. Large and obtrusive to view we have confessed, mourned, repented, possibly atoned them. Sins of omission so veiled amidst our hourly emotions, blent, confused, unseen, in the conventional routine of existence,--alas! could these suddenly emerge from their shadow, group together in serried mass and accusing order,--alas, alas! would not the best of us then start in dismay, and would not the proudest humble himself at the Throne of Mercy? CHAPTER XIX. Joy, nevertheless, does return to Mr. Rugge: and hope now inflicts herself on Mrs. Crane; a very fine-looking hope too,--six feet one, --strong as Achilles, and as fleet of foot! Buy we have left Mr. Rugge at Mrs. Crane’s door; admit him. He bursts into her drawing-room wiping his brows. “Ma’am, they’re off to America!” “So I have heard. You are fairly entitled to the return of your money--” “Entitled, of course, but--” “There it is; restore to me the contract for the child’s services.” Rugge gazed on a roll of bank-notes, and could scarcely believe his eyes. He darted forth his hand,--the notes receded like the dagger in Macbeth. “First the contract,” said Mrs. Crane. Rugge drew out his greasy pocket-book, and extracted the worthless engagement. “Henceforth, then,” said Mrs. Crane, “you have no right to complain; and whether or not the girl ever again fall in your way, your claim over her ceases.”