my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was: not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet door-step: I groaned—I wrung my hands—I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation—this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone—at least for a moment: but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.
"I can but die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence."
These words I not only thought but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there—dumb and still.
"All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want."
"Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near—what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud, long knock, the new comer appealed to the door.
"Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried Hannah.
"Yes—yes; open quickly."
"Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in—your sisters are
