train of feeling succeeding to another, until the worn-out spirit of the man gave in, and would be moved no longer.  At last, the unhappy banker grew sullen and silent.  He ceased to sigh, and groan, and weep.  His brain refused to think.  He drew his seat to the window of the room, which permitted him, unperceived, to observe the movements in the bank—­and, folding his arms, he looked doggedly on, and clenched his teeth, and frowned.  He saw the fortunate few who came for money and received it—­and the unfortunate many, who brought their money—­left, and lost it.  He was indifferent to all.  He beheld—­as the spirits fair may be supposed to look upon the earth a moment before the sweeping pestilence that comes to thin it—­life, vigorous and active, in that house of business, whose latest hour had come—­whose knell was already sounding; but it moved him not.  He heard men speak his name in tones of kindness, whose lips on the morrow would deal out curses.  He saw others, hat in hand, begging for an audience, who would avoid him with a sneer and a scorning when he passed them in the street.  He looked upon his own servants, who could not flatter their master too highly to-day, and would be the first to-morrow to cry him down, and rail against his unpardonable extravagance and recklessness; but he heeded nothing.  His mind had suspended its operations, whilst his physical eye stared upon vacancy.

It was very strange.  He continued in this fashion for a long time, and suddenly sensibility seemed restored to him; for an ashy paleness came over him—­his eyelid trembled, and his lips were drawn down convulsively, as if through strong and heavy grief.  He rose instantly, rushed to the bell, and rang it violently.

Burrage came to answer it.

“Monster!” exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, “have you no heart—­no feeling left within you?  How could you do it?”

“Do what, sir?”

“Rob that poor old man.  Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending creature.  Why did you take his miserable earnings?  Why did you rob his little ones?  Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren?  He will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the judgment-seat.  Why was that old man’s money taken?”

“We must take all, or nothing, sir.  You forbade me to speak a syllable.”

“Speak—­speak!  Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin?  You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me.  Go—­but mark me—­breathe not a word, if you hope to live.”

The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and went his way again.

It was six o’clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it.  They were both in the private room, which the former had not quitted during the day.  Michael was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side.  When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to his old friend and spoke—­