common with the received idea of heroism and greatness, unless, indeed, any ray of them should shine through the lives of the great ones of the earth, when it becomes a constellation and is tracked in Heaven straightway—this slight, small, patient figure, leaning on the man still young but worn and grey, is she, his sister, who, of all the world, went over to him in his shame and put her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination, led him hopefully upon his barren way.
"It is early, John," she said. "Why do you go so early?"
"Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to spare, I should like, I think—it’s a fancy—to walk once by the house where I took leave of him."
"I wish I had ever seen or known him, John."
"It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate."
"But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not your sorrow mine? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now."
"My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?"
"I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!"
"How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are in this, or anything?" said her brother. "I feel that you did know him, Harriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him.'
She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his neck, and answered, with some hesitation:
"No, not quite."
"True, true!" he said; "you think I might have done him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him better?"
"Think! I know it."
"Designedly, Heaven knows I would not," he replied, shaking his head mournfully; "but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such association. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear—"
"I do not," she said quietly.
"It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of him for that which made it so much heavier then." He checked himself in his tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said "Good by'e!"
"Good by'e, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye."
The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his life, his universe, and yet it was a portion of his punishment and grief; for in the cloud he saw upon it—though serene and calm as any radiant cloud at sunset—and in the constancy and devotion of her life, and in the sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw the bitter fruits of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh.
She stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped in each other, as he made his way over the frowzy and uneven patch of ground which lay before their house, which had once (and not long ago) been a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, with a disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as if they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenever he looked back—as once or twice he did—her cordial face shone like a light upon his heart;
