“But still your bacon and greens would pay for it.  I know it all, and who doesn’t?  But about your own affairs?”

“In truth, they are in a bad state—­the same bacon and greens—­he has not left me much of either; he made clean work of them, at any rate, before he went.”

“But about your affairs, I’m sayin’?”

“Why, they can’t be worse; I’m run to the last pass; and Freney now, the crature, when the saddle’s on him, comes to the mounting-stone of himself, and waits there till I’m ready.  Then,” he added, with a deep sigh, “to think of parting with him!  And I must do it—­I must;” and here the tears rose to his eyes so copiously that he was obliged to take out his cotton handkerchief and wipe them away.

The heart of the old miser was touched.  He knew not why, it is true, but he felt that the view he got of one immortal spirit uncorrupted by the crimes and calculating hypocrisy of life, made the contemplation of his own state and condition, as well as of his future hopes, fearful.

“What would I not give,” thought he, “to have a soul as free from sin and guilt, and to be as fit to face my God as that man?  And yet they say it can be brought about.  Well, wait—­wait till I have my revenge on this black villain, and I’ll see what may be done.  Ay, let what will happen, the shame and ruin of my child must be revenged.  And yet, God help me, what am I sayin’?  Would this good man say that?  He that forgives every one and everything.  Still, I’ll repent in the long run.  Come, Father Peter,” said he, “don’t be cast down; I’ll thry what I can for you; but then, again, if I do, what security can you give me?”

“Poor Freney the Robber—­”

“Well, now, do you hear this!”

“—­Was a name I gave him on account of—­”

“Troth, I’ll put on my hat and lave you here, if you don’t spake out about what you came for.  How much is it you say you want?”

The good man, who was startled out of his affection for Freney by the tone of Corbet’s voice more than by his words, now raised his head, and looked about him somewhat like a person restored to consciousness.

“Yes, Anthony,” said he; “yes, man alive; there’s kindness in that.”

“In what, sir?”

“In the very tones of your voice, I say.  God has touched your heart, I hope.  But oh, Anthony, if it were His blessed will to soften it—­to teach it to feel true contrition and repentance, and to fill it with love for His divine will in all things, and for your fellow-creatures, too—­how little would I think of my own miserable difficulties!  Father of all mercy! if I could be sure that I had gained even but one soul to heaven, I would say that I had not been born and lived in vain!”