twenty thousand pounds.  The moment the money had arrived, Michael’s previous anxieties fled from his bosom, and left him as happy as a boy without a care.  It came like a respite from death.  Sanguine to the last, he congratulated himself upon the overthrow of his temporary difficulties, and relied upon the upturning of some means of payment, on the arrival of the distant day.  But distant as it looked at first, it crept nearer and nearer, until at the end of two months, when—­as he saw no possibility of relieving himself from the engagement—­it appeared close upon him, haunting him morning, noon, and night, wheresoever he might be, and sickening him with its terrible and desperate aspect.  When there wanted only a week to the fatal day, Michael’s hope of meeting the note of hand was slighter than ever.  He became irritable, distressed, and anxious—­struggled hard to get the needful sum together, struggled and strove; but failed.  Hours and minutes were now of vital consequence; and, in a rash and unprotected moment, he permitted himself to write a letter to the London house, begging them, as a particular favour, just for one week to retire the bill they held against him.  The London house civilly complied with the request, and five days of that last and dreary week swept by, leaving poor Allcraft as ill prepared for payment as they had found him.  What could he do?  At length the gulf had opened—­was yawning—­to receive him.  How should he escape it?

Heaven, in its infinite mercy, has vouchsafed to men angels to guide and cheer them on their difficult and thorny paths.  Could Michael suffer, and Margaret not sympathize?  Could he have a sorrow which she might chase away, and, having the power, lack the heart to do it?  Impossible!  Oh! hear her in her impassioned supplications; hear her at midnight, in their disturbed and sleepless bedchamber, whilst the doomed man sits at her side in agony, clasps his face, and buries it within his hand for shame and disappointment.

“Michael, do not break my heart.  Take, dearest, all that I possess; but, I entreat you, let me see you cheerful.  Do not take this thing to heart.  Whatever may be your trouble, confide it, love, to me.  I will try to kill it!”

“No, no, no,” answered Allcraft wildly; “it must not be—­it shall not be, dear Margaret.  You shall be imposed upon no longer.  You shall not be robbed.  I am a villain!”

“Do not say so, Michael.  You are kind and good; but this cruel business has worn you out.  Leave it, I implore you, if you can, and let us live in peace.”

“Margaret, it is impossible.  Do not flatter yourself or me with the vain hope of extrication.  Release will never come.  I am bound to it for my life; it will take longer than a life to effect deliverance.  You know not my calamities.”

“But I will know them, Michael, and share them with you, if they must be borne.  I am your wife, and have a right to this.  Trust me, Michael, and do not kill me with suspense.  What is this new affliction?  Whatsoever it may be, it is fitting that I should know it—­yes, will know it, dearest, or I am not worthy to lie beside you there.  Tell me, love, how is it that for these many days you have looked so sad, and sighed, and frowned upon me.  I am conscious of no fault.  Have I done amiss?  Say so, and I will speedily repair the fault?”