The Madam's hand dropped to her side, and she slunk back to her former position, her florid face impressed with an expression which was not, altogether, one of serenity or joy. "You wondered, to-night, why Mr. Burney permitted the poor shoemaker to visit his house. Let me enlighten you a little. Not many years ago, an unknown mechanic called upon the rich merchant, in his library, and proved to the merchant's satisfaction, that he,--the poor mechanic,--had, in his possession, certain papers which established the fact that the immense wealth of Mr. Burney had been obtained by a gross fraud; a fraud which, in a court of law, would disclose itself in the two-fold shape of _perjury_ and _forgery_. The father of the mechanic was the victim; Burney, the criminal; the victim had died poor and broken-hearted; but in the hands of the criminal, the property so illy-gotten, had swelled into an immense fortune. It was the son of the victim who, having lived through a friendless orphanage, now came to Mr. Burney and proved that at any moment he might involve the rich merchant in disgrace and ruin." "Impossible!" ejaculated Barnhurst. "The merchant made large offers to the mechanic to obtain his silence,--believing in the true mercantile way, that every man has his price, he offered a good round sum, and doubled it the next moment,--but in vain. The image of his broken-hearted father was before the mechanic,--he could not banish it,--he had but one purpose, and that was, to bring the rich man to utter ruin. This purpose was strong in his heart, when scorning all the offers of the merchant, he rose from his seat and moved toward the door. But at the door his purpose was changed. There he was confronted by the face of a happy, sinless girl,--a girl with all the beauty of a happy, sinless heart, written upon her young face. At the sight, the mechanic relented. Maddened by the thirst for a full and bitter revenge, he could destroy the father, but he had not the heart to destroy the father of that sinless girl. For,--do you hear me,--it was Alice,--it was Alice,--Alice." The long-restrained agony burst forth at last. With her name upon his lips, he paused,--he buried his face in his hands. "Alice, Alice, who lies before you now!" He raised his face again; it was distorted by agony; it was bathed in tears. The clergyman fell on his knees. "Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will make reparation." "Up! up! don't kneel to me," shrieked Dermoyne, and he dragged the miserable culprit to his feet. "There's no manner of kneeling or praying between heaven and hell, that can help you, if that poor girl dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and to make my silence perpetual, he made a will, in which he names me as his sole heir, in case of his daughter's death); I spared her father for her sake, and can you think that I will spare you,--you who have brought her to a shame and death like this?"