His spirit was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and
repute among the citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never
mingled in their revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and
generous, he was beloved by all. He was pitied too by those who
knew his story, and these were so many that when he walked along
the streets alone at dusk, even the rude common people doffed their
caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with their respect.

One night in May - it was her birthnight, and twenty years since
she had left her home - Hugh Graham sat in the room she had
hallowed in his boyish days. He was now a gray-haired man, though
still in the prime of life. Old thoughts had borne him company for
many hours, and the chamber had gradually grown quite dark, when he
was roused by a low knocking at the outer door.

He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which
he had seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the
portal. It hurried swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He
looked for pursuers. There were none in sight. No, not one.

He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when
suddenly a vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He
barred the door, and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was, -
there, in the chamber he had quitted, - there in her old innocent,
happy home, so changed that none but he could trace one gleam of
what she had been, - there upon her knees, - with her hands clasped
in agony and shame before her burning face.

'My God, my God!' she cried, 'now strike me dead! Though I have
brought death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die at