penurious; his credit was unlimited, as his character was unimpeachable.  There are some men who cannot gain the world’s favour, do what they will to purchase it.  There are others, on the other hand, who, having no fair claim at all to it, are warmed and nourished throughout life by the good opinion of mankind.  No man lived with fewer virtues than Abraham Allcraft; no man was reputed richer in all the virtues that adorn humanity.  He was an honest man, because he starved upon a crust.  He was industrious, because from morn till night he laboured at the bank.  He was a moral man, because his word was sacred, and no one knew him guilty of a serious fault.  He was the pattern of a father—­witness the education of his son.  He was the pattern of a banker—­witness the house’s regularity, and steady prosperous course.  He lived within view of the mansion in which Mildred breathed his last; he knew the history of the deceased, as well as he knew the secrets of his own bad heart.  He had seen the widow in her solitary walks; he had made his plans, and he was not the man to give them up without a struggle.

It was perhaps on the tenth day after Mildred had been deposited in the earth, that Margaret permitted the sun once more to lighten her abode.  Since the death of her husband the house had been shut up—­no visitor had been admitted—­there had been no witness to her agony and tears.  It should be so.  There are calamities too great for human sympathy; seasons too awful for any presence save that of the Eternal.  Time, reason, and religion—­not the hollow mockery of solemn words and looks—­must heal the heart lacerated by the tremendous deathblow.  Abraham Allcraft had waited for this day.  He saw the gloomy curtains drawn aside—­he beheld life stirring in the house again.  He dressed himself more carefully than he had ever done before, and straightaway hobbled to the door, before another and less hasty foot could reach it.  A painter, wishing to arrest the look of one who smiles, and smiles, and murders whilst he smiles, would have been glad to dwell upon the face of Abraham, as he addressed the servant-man who gave him entrance.  Below the superficial grin, there was, as clear as day, the natural expression of the soul that would not blend with any show of pleasantry.  Abraham wished to give the attendant half-a-crown as soon as possible.  He dared not offer it without a reason, so he dropped his umbrella, and, like a generous man, rewarded the honest fellow who stooped to pick it up.  This preliminary over, and, as it were, so much of dirt swept from the very threshold, he gave his card, announced himself as Mr Allcraft, banker, and desired to see the lady on especial business.  He was admitted.  The ugliest of dresses did not detract from the perfect beauty of the widowed Margaret; the bitterest of griefs had not removed the bloom still ripening on her cheek.  Time and sorrow were most merciful.  The wife and widow looked yet a girl blushing in her teens.  Abraham Allcraft gazed upon the lady, as he bowed his artful head, with admiration and delight, and then he threw one hurried and involuntary glance around the gorgeous room in which she sat, and then he made his own conclusions, and assumed an air of condolence and affectionate regard, as the wolf is said to do in fables, just before he pounces on the lamb and strangles it.