have said, 'Hence, abandoned creature! go, and sin afresh; for you shall
never be suffered to live an honest life, or herd with honest people.
Repent, and we will laugh at your penitence as a shallow deception.
Weep, and we will cry out upon your tears. Toil and struggle to regain
the eminence from which you have fallen, and when you have nearly
reached the top of that difficult hill, we will band ourselves together
to hurl you back into the black abyss.' That's what the _world_ says to
the sinner, Margaret, my girl. I don't know much of the gospel; I have
never read it since I was a boy, and used to read long chapters aloud to
my mother, on quiet Sunday evenings; I can see the little old-fashioned
parlour now as I speak of that time; I can hear the ticking of the
eight-day clock, and I can see my mother's fond eyes looking up at me
every now and then. But I don't know much about the gospel now; and
when, you, poor child, try to read it to me, there's some devil rises in
my breast, and shuts my ears against the words. I don't know the gospel,
but I _do_ know the world. The laws of society are inflexible, Madge;
there is no forgiveness for a man who is once found out. He may commit
any crime in the calendar, so long as his crimes are profitable, and he
is content to share his profits with his neighbours. But he mustn't be
found out."

Upon the 16th of August, 1850, the day on which Sampson Wilmot, the
banker's clerk, was to start for Southampton, James Wentworth spent the
morning in his daughter's humble little sitting-room, and sat smoking by
the open window, while Margaret worked beside a table near him.

The father sat with his long clay pipe in his mouth, watching his
daughter's fair face as she bent over the work upon her knee.

The room was neatly kept, but poorly furnished, with that old-fashioned