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in Amsterdam, staying in London, and
dining, as usual, at Mr. Vanderlinden's, told
us that an old man, very decrepit, had once
or twice inquired if they had heard of me or
Alice: if we were living, and well. But he
had lately ceased to come.

Time could never more restore to me my lost
friend; but it brought us consolation. Late on
one bitter winter's night, as Alice and I were
sitting together by the fire, we were startled
by the sound of a coach driving into the
quiet yard in which our house stood. It
stopped at our door, and the bell was
rung. Alice turned pale, as I did; for the
same anxious hope had struck us both.
I took the lamp in my hand, and went down
myself.

There was a hackney-carriage at the door,
with two trunks upon it; the horses were
standing in the biting air, steaming in the
light of my lamp. The driver had the coach
door open, and was calling to his passenger
to alight. "He had dropped asleep," he
said; "tired enough, I dare say, for he has
just come off a sea-voyage."

He called to his passenger again, and
seemed to shake him, as I rushed to the
door, holding up the light, which showed me
the inside of the vehicle. Huddled up in two
cloaks, and lying sideways on the seat, was
the figure of a tall man, with thin grey hair.
It was poor old Garnett.

"He seemed very weak when he got in at
Deptford," said the coachman. "I think he
must be ill."

"He is dead," I said, as I felt his hand,
and threw the light upon his ghastly
features. "Dead!"

The doctor, whom the man fetched,
confirmed my belief. The wintry weather, and
the sea-voyage, and an illness from which he
seemed to have been suffering, had destroyed
the last weak remnant of his life. He had
something to tell us, we knew; but his lips
were sealed in death, and we could only
gather it from the papers in his trunks,
which were addressed to me. They
contained letters between himself and his son.
A memorandum, like a will, in the
handwriting of my old schoolfellowwhom I
ascertained had died suddenly in Amsterdam,
of an epidemic fever, not long beforewas
also there; and from these, and many papers
in the father's hand, I pieced out his dreadful
story. It was the old man's dream of
making wealth rapidly by speculation which
had involved them. The forgery was his;
the ruin and disgrace all brought by him.
Garnett had no choice but to accuse his
father, or to fly. In Amsterdam he had
made a friend, and found employment in a
merchant's house; and there were traces
among his papers of an intention of going to
America shortly before his sudden death.
He had scraped together a small sum of
money, which the old man, on the day of his
leaving Amsterdam, had deposited in the
hands of the Vanderlindens there, for their creditors
in England.

So the dark cloud that had rested on him
passed away, and left no stain upon his
brightness; for none who had known him
remained ignorant of his story. I told
it, touching tenderly the weakness of the
poor old man, who had really loved his son,
and in this miserable way had dreamed
of lifting him to wealth and honour. I told
it in the old Brewers' school, to another
generation of boys, who had long heard of
his name with only evil associations. I told
it to his creditors, whom I called together at
my house. I grew rich by my business, and
by the wealth which others bequeathed me;
and it was but a small thing to me to pay his
debts, even to the last guinea; but I
would leave nothing undone that could
restore his name, long after loved and
honoured by us all.

TWO WORLDS.

GOD'S world is bathed in beauty,
God's world is steep'd in light;
It is the self-same glory
That makes the day so bright,
Which thrills the earth with music,
Or hangs the stars in night.

Hid in earth's mines of silver,
Floating on clouds above,—
Ringing in Autumn's tempest,
Murmur'd by every dove;
One thought fills God's creation
His own great name of love!

In God's world strength is lovely,
And so is beauty strong,
And lightGod's glorious shadow
To both great gifts belong;
And they all melt into sweetness,
And fill the earth with song.

Above God's world bends Heaven,
With day's kiss pure and bright,
Or folds her still more fondly
In the tender shade of night;
And she casts back Heaven's sweetness
In fragrant love and light.

God's world has one great echo,
Whether calm blue mists are curl'd;
Or lingering dew-drops quiver,
Or red storms are unfurl'd;
The same deep love is throbbing
Through the great heart of God's world,

Man's world is black and blighted,
Steep'd through with self and sin;
And should his feeble purpose
Some feeble good begin,
The work is marr'd and tainted
By Leprosy within.

Man's world is bleak and bitter;
Wherever he has trod
He spoils the tender beauty
That blossoms on the sod,
And blasts the loving Heaven
Of the great good world of God.

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