and at its close, when I had built up a good name and shown openly that after any crime a man might recover himself, repent and atone, I meant to pay the full price of the sin of my youth and openly to acknowledge it before the world. How far I was right or wrong in this decision I cannot tell; perhaps no human judgment ever can tell. I simply state what I then resolved and have never swerved from-till I saw you. Of necessity, with this ultimate confession ever before me, all the pleasures of life and all its closest ties -friendship, love, marriage-were not to be thought of. I set them aside as impossible. To me life could never be enjoyment, but simply atonement. humble-to me, who never had a home in my whole life! Think of all I would have tried to make it to you! Think of sitting by my fireside knowing that you were the only one required to make it happy and bright-that, good and pleasant and dear as many others might be, the only absolute necessity to each of us was one another! Then the years that would have followed, in which we never had to say good-bye-in which our two hearts would daily lie open, clear and plain, never to have a doubt or a secret any more! Then, if we should not always be only twothink of you as my wife, the mother of my children— I was unable to conclude this last night. Now I only add a line before going into the town to gain information about-about this person, by whom his body was found, and where buried. years ended), I went where buried. With that intent I have already been searching the cathedral buryingground, but there are no signs of graves there: all is smooth green turf with the dew upon it glittering like a sheet of diamonds in the bright spring morning. My subsequent history you are acquainted with--how, after the needful term of medical study in Britain (I chose Dublin, as being the place where I was utterly a stranger, and remained there till my four years ended), I went as an army-surgeon half over the world. The first time I ever set foot in England again was not many weeks before I saw in the ballroom of the Cedars that little sweet face of yoursthe same face in which two days ago I read the look of love which stirs a man's heart to the very core. In a moment it obliterated the resolutions, conflicts, sufferings, of twenty years, and restored me to a man's right and privilege of loving, wooing, marrying. Shall we ever be married? By the time you read this, if ever you do read it, that question will have been answered. It can do you no harm if for one little minute I think of you as my wife-no longer friend, child, mistress, but my wife. Think of all that would have been implied by that name! Think of coming home, and of all that home would have been-however It reminded me of you, this being your hour for rising, you early bird, you little methodical girl. You may at this moment be out on the terrace looking up to the hilltop, or down toward your favorite cedar trees, with that sunshiny spring-morning face of yours. Pray for me, my love, my wife, my Theo dora. I have found his grave at last: "In memory of Henry Johnston, only son of the Reverend William Henry Johnston, of Rockmount, Surrey, who met his death by an accident near this town, and was buried here. Born May 19, 1806. Died November 19, 1836." Farewell, Theodora ! The formalities of the court began, but I scarcely listened to them. They seemed to me of little consequence. As I said to Granton when he urged me to employ counsel, a man who only wants to speak the truth can HIS STORY OF HIS TRIAL FOR THE KILLING surely manage to do it, in spite of the encumbrances of the law. OF HER BROTHER. My dear Theodora, by this time you will have known all. Thank God, it is over! My dear, dear love-my own faithful girl it is over! It was noon before the case came on: a long time to wait. Do not suppose me braver than I was. When I found myself standing in the prisoners' dock, the whole mass of staring faces seemed to whirl round and round before my eyes. I felt sick and cold; I had lost more strength than I thought. Everything present melted away into a sort of dream through which I fancied I heard you speaking, but could not distinguish any words except these, the soft, still tenderness of which haunted me as freshly as if they had been only just uttered: "My dear Max! my dear Max!" By this I perceived that my mind was wandering and must be recalled; so I forced myself to look round at the judge, jury, witness-box, in which was one person sitting with his white head resting on his hand. I felt who it was. Did you know your father was subpoenaed here? If so, what a day this must have been for my poor child! Think not, though, that the sight of him added to my suffering. I had no fear of him, or of anything now. Even public shame was less terrible than I thought; those scores of inquisitive eyes hardly stabbed so deep as in days past did many a kind look of your father's, many a loving glance of yours. It came to an end-the long, unintelligible indictment--and my first clear perception of my position was the judge's question: "How say you, prisoner at the bar, guilty or not guilty?" I pleaded "Guilty," as a matter of course. The judge asked several questions, and held a long discussion with the counsel for the Crown on what he termed "this very remarkable case." The purport of it was, I believe, to ascertain my sanity and whether any corroboration of my confession could be obtained. It could not. All possible witnesses were long since dead, except your father. He still kept his position, neither turning toward me nor yet from me, neither compassionate nor revengeful, but sternly composed, as if his long sorrows had obtained their solemn satisfaction and even though the end was thus he felt relieved that it had come--as if he, like me, had learned to submit that our course should be shaped for us rather than by us, being taught that even in this world's events the God of truth will be justified before men, will prove that those who, under any pretence, disguise or deny the truth live not unto him. Is it not strange that then and there I should have been calm enough to think of these things-ay, and should calmly write of them now? But, as I have told you, in a great crisis my mind always recovers its balance and becomes quiet. Besides, sickness makes us both clear-sighted and far-sighted wonderfully so, sometimes. Do not suppose from this admission that my health is gone or going, but simply that I am, as I see in the looking-glass, a somewhat older and feebler man than my dear love remembers me a year ago. But I must hasten on. The plea of guilty being recorded, no trial was necessary; the judge had only to pass sentence. I was asked whether, by counsel or otherwise, I wished to say anything in my own defence, and then I rose and told the whole truth. Do not grieve for me, Theodora. The truth is never really terrible. What makes it so is the fear of man, and that was over with me; the torment of guilty shame, and that was gone too. I have had many a moment of far sharper anguish, more grinding humiliation, than this, when I stood up and publicly confessed the sin of my youth, with the years of suffering which had followed. Dare I say man, expiated it? There is a sense in which no sin ever can be expiated except in one blessed Way; yet, in so far as a man can atone to I believed I had atoned for mine; I had tried to give a life for a life, morally speaking. Nay, I had given it. But it was not enough; it could not be. Nothing less than the truth was required from me, and I here offered it. Thus in one short half hour the burden of a lifetime was laid down for ever. The judge he was not unmoved, so they told me afterward-said he must take time to consider the sentence. Had the prisoner any witnesses as to character? Several came forward-among the rest, the good old chaplain, who had travelled all night from Liverpool in order, he said, just to shake hands with me to-day, which he did, in open court, God bless him! There was also Colonel Turton, with Colin Granton, who had never left me since daylight this morning, but they all held back when they saw rise and come forward, as if with the intention of being sworn, your father. Have no fear, my love, for his health. I watched him closely all this day. He bore it well; it will have no ill result, I feel sure. From my observation of him, I should say that a great and salutary change had come over him, both body and mind, and that he is as likely to enjoy a green old age as any one I know. When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as before his accident it used to be in the pulpit: "My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial. Not being called upon to give evidence, I wish to make a statement upon oath." There must have been a "sensation in the court," as newspapers say, for I saw Granton look anxiously at me. But I had no fears: your father, whatever he had to say, was sure to speak the truth-not a syllable more or less-and the truth was all I wanted. The judge here interfered, observing that, there being no trial, he could receive no legal evidence against the prisoner. "Nor have I any such evidence to give: I wish only for justice. My Lord, may I speak?" No, My Lord." Your father hesitated, but only momentarily. He told me the whole story himself a year ago under circumstances that would have induced most men to conceal it for ever. The judge inquired, son's, I have little doubt of its perfect accuracy.' The judge looked up from his notes: "You seem, sir, strange to say, to be not unfavorable toward the prisoner." "I am just toward the prisoner. I wish to be, even though he has on his hands the blood of my only son." After the pause which followed, the judge said, "Mr. Johnston, the court respects your feelings and regrets to detain you longer or put you to any additional pain, but it may materially aid the decision of this very pecu Why was not this confession made public liar case if you will answer another question. at once?" "Because I was afraid. I did not wish to I did not wish to make my family history a by-word and a scandal. I exacted a promise that the secret should be kept inviolate. This promise he has broken, but I blame him not. It ought never to have been made." You are aware that, all other evidence being wanting, the prisoner can only be judged by his own confession. Do you believe, on your oath, that this confession is true?" "I do. I am bound to say, from my intimate knowledge of the prisoner, that I believe him to be now, whatever he may have "Certainly not. It was thwarting the been in his youth, a man of sterling honor purposes of justice and of the law." and unblemished life-one who would not tell a lie to save himself from the scaffold.” 66 "The court is satisfied." My Lord, I am an old man, and a clergyman; I know nothing about the law, but I know it was a wrong act to bind any man's conscience to live a perpetual lie." Your father was here asked if he had any- and for the first time that day he and I were thing more to say. face to face: "A word only. In the prisoner's confession he has out of delicacy to me omitted. three facts which weigh materially in extenuation of his crime. When he committed it, he was only nineteen and my son was thirty. He was drunk, and my son, who led an irregular life, had made him so, and afterward taunted him more than a youth of nineteen was likely to bear. Such was his statement to me, and, knowing his character and my But before he sat down your father turned, "I am a clergyman, as I said, and I never was in a court of justice before. Is it illegal for me to address a few words to the prisoner?" Whether it was or not, nobody interrupted him. "Dr. Urquhart," he said, speaking loud enough for every one to hear, what your sentence may be I know not, or whether you and I shall ever meet again until the day of |