The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence for some moments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed up into the face of her mother, whose tears bore witness to the deep anguish of her soul. The silence was interrupted by the rising of the latter, who for a few moments paced the room, and then sank helplessly into a chair. The attentive child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors were called in, she was laid upon her bed. That night a severe attack of fever came upon her; for many days her life was despaired of; but at length a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the chamber of the sick, and at the close of six weeks her health was in a great degree restored.
"Time heals all wounds," is a common saying, true in some cases, but not in all. Some wounds there are that sink deep in the heart,—their pain even time cannot remedy, but stretch far into eternity, and find their solace there. Others there are which by time are partially healed;—such was that of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness, many of the little incidents that before had troubled her passed from her mind. She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment, believing, as during her sickness she had often been told, that afflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical such a statement might seem to be.
The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daughter, to remove their place of residence. This neighbor-a lady of moderate pecuniary circumstances-furnished them with needle-work, the compensation for which enabled them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable living.
CHAPTER II.
For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon his hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, broken only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merry jest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign of an adjacent tavern.
How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position is not for us to determine. But it would have been much longer, had not a loud rap at the outer door awakened him from his drowsy condition.
He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim-burning candle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the door, a man closely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin cap, the last of which hung slouchingly about his head and face, inquired, in a gruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person unfavorably known to the police as "Bold Bill" had been there. Harry trembled, knowing his interrogator to be one of the city watch; yet he endeavored to conceal his fears and embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked:
"That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have never before heard. Tell me what he has been about."
"Why do you think he has been about anything, or why think you I am acquainted with his actions?" inquired the stranger, in a stern voice, as though the supreme majesty of the law represented by him was not to be spoken lightly of. His scrutinizing features relaxed not in the least, but he looked our hero steadfastly in the face.
"By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a watchman, and as such I suppose you to be in search of that odd-named person on account of his being suspected of having broken the law."