place his lips to the faucet, a dark figure sprang out from beneath the staircase behind, and darted through the alley door, and out of sight.
Startled and surprised, Arthur ran down the alley swiftly, in pursuit, and gaining the street, looked anxiously up and down, in a vain hope of seeing some one who would satisfy his curiosity as to who or what it was; for it had passed him so fleetly and lightly, that he could almost believe it had been a shadow. He could see nothing, however; but catching a glimpse of Mr. Clinton, leisurely sauntering down the other side of the street, smoking a cigar, he hurried back, lest he should be seen by him, and locked the alley door behind him, saying, as he did so-'It was a careless trick in whoever left that open; I'll see to it myself in future;' and then walked back to inspect the hiding-place of the shadow, or whatever it was.
It was the niche formed by the steep flight of stairs; and, as there was a number of old barrels there, and other rubbish, it afforded a fine place for concealment, especially on a dark night. As it was directly in front of the hydrant, and Arthur's back had in the first place been toward it, whoever was there had evidently feared detection, when he should turn round, and so fled.
Into this court the long windows of the back part of the store opened, and it was this way that Minny had found egress on the night of her visit to Wilkins; and it was this way that Jeff, whose invariable honesty rendered him a privileged character about the place, always found egress on Sundays, and other hours when the store was closed.
Musing upon the circumstances which had just occurred, Arthur took the way to his room, and flung himself upon his bed.
It was easy to see what had been Guly's occupation during the previous day of loneliness. There lay the Bible open, on the little rough stand; there was the strip of carpet rumpled before the chair, where he had been kneeling-and there was the folded letter, sealed and directed to his mother.
Arthur turned upon his pillow with a moan. How differently had his Sabbath been spent, and how different, in consequence, were his Monday morning reflections! But his sorrow was not a repentant sorrow. It had been in the morning, when he first met Guly and Wilkins, but he was changed now. Had he not been rebuked harshly by his employer, in the presence of all the clerks? Had he not been openly accused of the error he had committed, read through and through by those cold, staring eyes? Had not the attention of all the clerks been turned towards him, and his secret been laid bare to them by the merchant's reproof, and quick, malicious glances?
There was no longer any need of further concealment, with the resolution of future improvement-it was all known-and to draw back henceforth, would be but to be reminded that he had already fallen once, and could never retake the step he had made. Such was the view Arthur took of the case, however false a light his pride may have cast upon it; and he buried his face, with the glow of shame upon it, deep in the pillow, while, with bitter resentment, his young heart traced it all back to the primal cause-the contemptuous repulse he had met with at Delancey's pew door.
It is not a question for reflection, where the punishment for Arthur's first real sin should rest? Was it for that young heart, till now free from all taint or corruption, save the corruption of pride, to suffer alone? or was it for the older and stronger spirit-the spirit stronger still in pride, and so much older in firmness, and power, and discipline, to bear its share?
CHAPTER IX.
At noontime Guly told Wilkins that if he would bring him a trifle of fruit from the Restaurant, or something of that kind, he would spend the time allowed him for dinner with his brother, and would much prefer it.
Wilkins very cordially assented, and Guly mounted the winding stairs slowly and thoughtfully, pushed open the old door at the head of the staircase, which was covered with the big-lettered advertisements, and stood before his sleeping brother.
The bar was drawn back; and, fully dressed, Arthur lay upon the humble bed. Perhaps the first plunge into dissipation leaves a deeper impression on youthful beauty, than the continued practice begun in older years.
Guly was startled at the change in his brother's features, which one night of excitement had wrought. He could see it now, as he lay there sleeping, more perfectly than when he had been with him in the morning, with his face full of ever-varying expression. There was a wasting upon the skin; deep black marks beneath the eyes; the lips were pale, and the nose seemed pinched; and his whole appearance was that of one convalescing after a severe fit of sickness.
Guly approached, and taking a low seat by the bedside, laid his face softly down beside his brother's on the pillow, and reaching over, clasped his fingers gently round one burning hand. He lay quite still, with his eyes fixed upon the sleeper's face. Who could tell, save He who knoweth all things, what thoughts were rushing through that throbbing heart, as it nestled there closer and closer, to all it held dear in that distant land?
The blue eyes filled suddenly full of tears, bright and pure, even as that boy's path of life had ever been, and dropped down, one by one, upon the pillow. There was no visible cause for them, but they kept falling, those pure bright tears, till the fair cheeks over which they fell were bathed, and the pillow damped.
Was there a shadow-like presentiment creeping over that young spirit then, telling him to nestle close, close, for the time was coming when those two hearts would throb no more beside each other, and that the waves of life's ocean would some day cast one upon the shore, and bear the other far out to sea? Even so! It was dim, ghost-like, and undefined; but still the shadow flitted there darkly!
The sleeper turned restlessly, and uttered a plaintive moan. It was not a moan of pain, but one of sympathy; as if the grief in the heart beside him had crept into his own. He lifted one arm wearily, and it fell back upon the pillow, and the unconscious fingers lifted the rings of jetty hair from the fevered brow.
That bright brow! that pale, proud brow! how it gleamed out in contrast with those glossy curls. Guly gazed upon it, then lifted his head and kissed it; and the tears, still quivering on his lashes, fell upon it-that brother's brow!
Arthur opened his eyes, and gazed up steadily at the face bent over him. There was something in the expression of that face which went over his heart like a strain of touching music. He could not bear that it should be turned away from him, or that he should lose it, and he raised both hands, and, laying them among the silken curls, held it there.
'Oh, Guly! Guly! do you know all?'
'Dear Arthur! don't speak of this.'
'Yet you have sorrowed for me; you have grieved, and been silent, and unreproachful. Oh, Guly! what a wretch I am!'
'Hush, Arthur! oh, don't, don't!'
The tears fell down again, unrestrainedly, upon that pale brow, gleaming up from the jetty locks, and for a moment neither spoke.
'I feel, Guly, as though I had taken a long leap into sin-such a long one, that I shall never get back; and everything seems at work to keep me in it. What shall I ever, ever do-I am so weak-so-so-'
'Oh, Arthur, look up-look ever up. God's finger points out the way to you from the sky; trust yourself to its holy guidance, and be strong.'
'Guly, I can't. It seems a long while since I prayed at all-since yesterday I seem to have lived an age, and it is black, all black!'
'Nay, Arthur, you have wandered a few hours from the fold, and your sight is darkened; but the Great Shepherd calls to you with His gentle voice to return. Listen, and obey.'
'I should only fall again.'
'Trust, and you shall be strengthened.'
'Oh, Guly, I have not your mind nor heart. I cannot be patient, and meek, and charitable, through all things, as you can; I have so much pride that I
'Try, and remember in your heart
