"On my word, sir," said Dr Henderson, smiling--he could not help it--"you have made quick work of it indeed; and I assure you, I for one am not sorry that the villain has met with his deserts. But we must now care for your safety, Mr Rutherford, from the vengeance of the laws," added the doctor; "although I do not see how they can be very severe in such a case as this. Yet it will be as well for you to keep out of harm's way for a little. You must remain for some time in concealment; and a fitter or more secure place than I shall provide for you in my house here, you could not readily find anywhere; and I must insist on your availing yourself of it." Edward did not know how to express the gratitude he felt for the singular and most disinterested kindness of his worthy host. He was, in truth, too strongly impressed with it to be able to acknowledge it otherwise than by a few broken sentences; but there was in these, and still more in the manner in which they were spoken, enough to show Dr Henderson that his friendly conduct was properly appreciated. "Nothing at all, my dear sir!--nothing at all!" said the doctor, in reply to Edward's attempts at acknowledgment of the generous part he was acting towards him. "I'm very sure you would do the same for me, were I placed in your situation. You have, besides, Mr Rutherford--although, perhaps, a strict morality might question your right to the step you have taken--you have, I say, notwithstanding this, a claim on the friendly services of every man who can feel for the wrongs of another, especially--most especially--such grievous wrongs as yours. It was a just, and, on the part of him who has suffered, a well-merited retribution." Edward was shortly afterwards introduced into the place of concealment--a comfortable little apartment, which had been prepared for him by the kindness of the worthy doctor; and here he remained for about seven weeks, experiencing every kindness and attention from his benevolent host, when he was secretly conveyed on board of a ship about to sail for London, where he arrived in safety, at the expiry of somewhere about the usual period occupied in such a voyage. On his return home, Edward found his father at the point of death. The fate of his unfortunate daughter was hurrying him to the grave. Edward had not told him what was his object in going out to India; but the old man had guessed it, and had made several ineffectual attempts to dissuade him from his purpose. On the former now approaching his bedside, therefore, "Thank God!'" he said, stretching out his hand to Edward, "that I see you safe again, my son;" and added--afraid to be more particular in his inquiries--"have you seen Raeburn?" "I have, father," was the only reply of his son; but it was said in a manner, and accompanied by a look, which assured him of what had taken place. "I cannot approve, Edward, of what you have done," said his father; "but God will forgive you!"