only the few articles of his clothing which happened to be at the
office, crept out of the door and down the stairs with the look of a
veritable thief.

Choosing the least-frequented streets, and avoiding the recognition
of such of his acquaintance as chanced to meet him, he slunk
homeward, feeling a little less wretched, but infinitely more
degraded, than he had done before his confession.

Burroughs knew, his mother knew, the police-officials knew,--how
could he tell who did not know?-of his shame and guilt. Every pair
of eyes seemed to accuse him; every step seemed to pursue him; every
distant voice seemed to summon him to receive the punishment of his
misdoing; and it was as to a refuge that he at last hurried in at
the door and up the stairs of the tenement-house.

At the upper landing, however, he paused. His mother!-oh the sorrow
and the shame that he had brought upon her in payment for all her
love and effort, and the constant sacrifices she had made, ever
since he could remember, to enable him to rise above his natural
station, and to appear as well as his future associates! It came
back to him now,--not a new thought, but one intensified by the more
immediate suffering of the last two hours. He leaned for a moment
against the wall, and wiped his clammy brow, feeling that any sudden
death, any strange chance that could befall him, would be welcome,
so that it swallowed up the coming moment, and spared him the sight
of the misery he had wrought.

Only a moment. Then the desperate courage that had carried him
through his confession to his master gave him strength to open the