“A friend! and thine the ruthless part
To break the bruised reed;
Coldly to crush the trusting heart
In time of deepest need;
To quench the lingering, quivering ray,
Of Hope’s just dying light,
Thus spreading o’er life’s dreary way
One deep unbroken night.”
The next morning, while Malcolm Montrose sat within his private parlor at the “Leaton Arms,” crushed by the failure of his last hopes, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a young girl, dressed in mourning, with a face pale as death, and a manner dreadfully agitated, hastily entered the room.
“So your mission to the Home Secretary has not succeeded!” were the first abrupt words uttered by the visitor, as she threw aside her veil, and stood before Mr. Montrose.