The man laughed. "Fool," said he, "the passions are not so easily
quelled--how many days is it since he had this remittance from England?"

"About three," replied the woman.

"And it is absolutely the very last remnant of his property?"

"The last."

"I am then to understand, that when this is spent there is nothing
between him and beggary?"

"Nothing," said the woman, with a half sigh.

The man laughed again, and then rejoined in an altered tone, "Then, then
will this parching thirst be quenched at last. I tell you, woman, that it
is many months since I have known a day--night--hour, in which my life
has been as the life of other men. My whole soul has been melted down
into one burning, burning thought. Feel this hand--ay, you may well
start--but what is the fever of the frame to that within?"

Here the voice sunk so low as to be inaudible. The woman seemed as if
endeavouring to sooth him; at length she said--"But poor Tyrrell--you
will not, surely, suffer him to die of actual starvation?"

The man paused for a few moments, and then replied--"Night and day, I
pray to God, upon my bended knees, only one unvarying, unceasing prayer,
and that is--'When the last agonies shall be upon that man--when, sick
with weariness, pain, disease, hunger, he lies down to die--when the