“Mother, do not speak thus,” exclaimed Mary, roused from the lethargy of exhaustion by her mother’s despairing words, and she flung herself on her knees beside her, and threw her arms around her.  “Mother, my own mother, the God of the widow and the fatherless is still our friend; He hath not forsaken us, though for a time His countenance is darkened towards us.  Oh, he will have mercy; He will raise us up a friend—­I feel, I know He will.  He will relieve us.  Let us but trust in Him, mother; let us not fail now.  Oh, let us pray to Him, and He will answer.”

The eyes of the good and gentle girl were lit up with sudden radiance.  Her pallid cheek was faintly flushed; her whole countenance and tone expressed the enthusiasm, the holiness which had characterised her whole life.  Mrs. Greville clasped her faded form convulsively to her aching bosom, and, drooping her head, wept long and freely.

“Father, I have sinned,” she murmured; “oh, have mercy.”

An hour passed, and neither Mary nor her mother moved from that posture of affliction, yet of prayer.  They heard not the sound of many voices below, nor a rapid footstep on the stairs.  The opening of the door aroused them, but Mary looked not up; she clung closer to her mother, for she feared to gaze again on Dupont.  A wild exclamation of joy, of thanksgiving, bursting from Mrs. Greville’s lips startled her; for a moment she trembled, yet she could not be mistaken, that tone was joy.  Slowly she looked on the intruder.  Wildly she sprung up—­she clasped her hands together.

“My God, I thank thee, we are saved!” broke from her parched lips, and she sunk senseless at Mr. Hamilton’s feet.

Emissaries of wickedness were not wanting to convey the intelligence very quickly to Dupont’s ear, that Mrs. and Miss Greville had departed from the Rue Royale, under the protection of an English gentleman, who had stationed two of his servants at their house to protect Mr. Greville’s body from insult, and give him information of all that took place during his absence.  Furiously enraged, Dupont hastened to know the truth of these reports, and a scene of fierce altercation took place between him and Mr. Hamilton.  The calm, steady firmness of his unexpected opponent daunted Dupont as much as his cool sarcastic bitterness galled him to the quick.  The character of the man was known; he was convinced he dared not bring down shame on the memory of Greville, without inculpating himself, without irretrievably injuring his own character, and however he might use that threat as his weapon to compel Mary’s submission, Mr. Hamilton was perfectly easy on that head.  Dupont’s cowardly nature very soon evinced itself.  A few words from Mr. Hamilton convinced him that his true character had been penetrated, and dreading exposure, he changed his ground and his tone, acknowledged he had been too violent, but that his admiration for Miss Greville had been the sole cause; expressed deep sorrow for Mr. Greville’s melancholy end, disavowed all intention of preventing the interment of the body, and finally consented to liquidate all debts, save those which the sale of the house and furniture might suffice to discharge.