"Then let the blessed consciousness of that fact console you."
"And yet—if he should not have been!—if he should have died with a falsehood on his lips! But oh!" she added, weeping with bitterness, "I cannot believe it."
" Pardon me," said her reverend friend, " you will, I know, appreciate the only motive I have in putting this question:—To whom do you allude?"
"To my brother. My dear—my only brother."
"Did not he die in peace?"
"Yes! I must still believe it—although broken-hearted, he died in peace."
"Then of what are you apprehensive?"
"The possibility—the bare possibility—of his having, with his last, his dying breath, solemnly declared himself innocent of that of which he knew that he was guilty."
"Had you any reason to suppose that he was guilty?"
"The strongest proofs were adduced, but his word—which I had never known him to violate—in my judgment, weighed them down. It was almost impossible for any one but me to doubt the evidence of his guilt; but, placing implicit confidence in his honour, I doubted it; and when on his death-bed he calmly and solemnly repeated his declaration of innocence, every doubt on my mind was removed."
"Was the offence with which he was charged of a heinous character?"
"I will explain, in order that you may the better judge whether he— which heaven forbid!—can be associated with this fearful visitation."
"Do, my dear madam, and confide in my honour."
She then made an effort to be calm, and having dried her eyes, slowly commenced:—
"My brother was a physician. His practice was extensive. He was mild, gentle, sensitive, highly intellectual, and amiable in all the relations of life. He was a dear brother to me. But to all he was kind—most kind. His heart was full of sympathy and benevolence: he was a philanthropist indeed. I need not tell you how he was beloved! To the poor he was a guardian—to the orphan a father—to the widow a friend. His unassumed virtues were conspicuous to all, and by all within the sphere of his influence he was honoured. For years he retained this position, and not a syllable against his fair fame was ever breathed; but one night—one most unhappy night—the servants of a lady whom he frequently attended, and whose reputation had been, up to that period, spotless—joined in this declaration: that long after their mistress had retired, they saw him distinctly leave her chamber; that he walked down stairs stealthily, and quitted the house; and that as neither of them had opened the door to him, their mistress must have let him in herself! Nor was this all. When their master, who had attended an agricultural dinner that evening, had been informed of this on his return, other circumstances, which afforded strong collateral evidence, at once occurred to him. He had seen my brother at that very dinner; he had taken wine with him, and recollected that he
