Southern society asks no repentance of him whose hands reek with the blood of his poor victim; southern society has no pittance for that family Keepum has made lick the dust in tears and sorrow.  Even while we write-while the corpse of the murdered man, followed by a few brother craftsmen, is being borne to its last resting-place, the perpetrator, released on a paltry bail, is being regaled at a festive board.  Such is our civilization!  How had the case stood with a poor man!  Could he have stood up against the chivalry of South Carolina, scoffed at the law, or bid good-natured justice close her eyes?  No.  He had been dragged to a close cell, and long months had passed ere the tardy movements of the law reached his case.  Even then, popular opinion would have turned upon him, pre-judged him, and held him up as dangerous to the peace of the people.  Yes, pliant justice would have affected great virtue, and getting on her high throne, never ceased her demands until he had expiated his crime at the gallows.

A few weeks pass:  Keepum’s reputation for courage is fully endorsed, the Attorney-General finds nothing in the act to justify him in bringing it before a Grand Jury, the law is satisfied (or ought to be satisfied), and the rich murderer sleeps without a pang of remorse.

CHAPTER XLII.

In which some light is thrown on the plot of this history.

June, July, and August are past away, and September, with all its autumnal beauties, ushers in, without bringing anything to lighten the cares of that girl whose father yet pines in prison.  She looks forward, hoping against hope, to the return of her lover (something tells her he still lives), only to feel more keenly the pangs of hope deferred.

And now, once more, New York, we are in thy busy streets.  It is a pleasant evening in early September.  The soft rays of an autumn sun are tinging the western sky, and night is fast drawing her sable mantle over the scene.  In Washington Square, near where the tiny fountain jets its stream into a round, grassy-bordered basin, there sits a man of middle stature, apparently in deep study.  His dress is plain, and might be taken for that of either a working man, or a somewhat faded inspector of customs.  Heedless of those passing to and fro, he sits until night fairly sets in, then rises, and faces towards the East.  Through the trunks of trees he sees, and seems contemplating the gray walls of the University, and the bold, sombre front of the very aristocratic church of the Reformed Dutch.