That forth from the womb of the present chaos, a nobler era will be born, no one can doubt, who feels the force of these four words, '_there is a God_.' And that the present age with its deification of the money power, is one of the basest the world ever saw, cannot be disproved, although it may be bitterly denied. There is something pitiful in the thought that a world once deemed worthy of the tread of Satan, is now become the crawling ground of Mammon. CHAPTER V. MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS. Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her agony, Nameless and Mary pursued their way through the dark streets, as the morning drew near. They arrived at length, in front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich street, which once the palace of ease and opulence, was now, from the garret to the cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Nameless through the darkness up the marble stairs! A few hours since she went down those stairs, with death in her heart. Now her husband, risen from the grave was on her arm, hope was in her heart, and--although dark and bitter cold, and signs of poverty and wretchedness were all around her,--the future opened before her mental vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise. At the head of the stairway, on the fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the darkness, led Nameless across the threshold. "My home!" she whispered, and lighted the candle, which hours ago, in the moment of her deepest despair, she had extinguished. As the light stole around the place, Nameless at a glance beheld the miserable garret, with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, and scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner, a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair. "This your home!" he ejaculated and at the same time beheld the occupant of the arm-chair,--in that man prematurely old, his skeleton form incased in a loose wrapper, his emaciated hands resting on the arms, and one side of his corpse-like face on the back of the chair,--he after a long pause, recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius Berman. "O, my master!" he cried in a tone of inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees before the sleeping man, and pressed his emaciated hand reverently to his lips. "Is it thus I find you!" and profoundly affected, he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed upon that countenance, which despite its premature wrinkles, and dead apathetic expression, still bore upon its forehead,--half hid by snow-white hair,--some traces of the intellect of Cornelius Berman.