slightest doubt—I saw the certificate myself. They were married under their own names at St. John's Church; you will find the registry of it there. Hugh paid attention to her for some time, but soon became tired of the poor thing, and deserted her. He made many efforts to get her out the country, for he was smitten with Linda, and at that time he thought there was a chance that she would listen to him. It was a little before his fall. Mad with the prospect of marrying the woman he loved, he took every means to get rid of the girl he had espoused simply to satisfy his own terrible passions. The poor creature had lost everything, and wandered about the streets of Melbourne, earning a little now and then by needlework. But—listen to me, Harry—she was ever the same pure woman. Rags, hunger, disgrace were hers, but she never lost that glorious attribute of woman. I, degraded as I was, respected her, but I had no means wherewith to relieve her. I advised her to bring an action against Hugh, but she loved him still so strongly that she would not hear of disgracing him, arguing that at such a critical time, she would be his ruin if she did as I advised. And so she went on her way, dear girl, patient and uncomplaining. But the time came when she heard that Hugh was going to be married—it was when Bob and Linda had had a tiff, you know they frequently quarrelled. Then Hugh sought Bella, and tried to get the certificate from her, but he failed. I never saw a man so terribly angry; he seemed to me like an incarnate demon. He left her, threatening that he would kill her if she did not give up the token of her marriage. I never saw her again, but shortly after, her dead body was found in the Yarra scrub. You start. I feel certain that Bella was killed by that monster, and that he tore the certificate from her."
The dying man now rose up, and his features assumed great animation, life shot into his eyes, and a dreadful expression came into his face that distorted it hideously.
"Mark me," said he, hurriedly, "mark me, Hugh Hanlon was the murderer of Bella, and, Harry, if there is a spark of manhood in you, never stay your hand till he stands upon the gallows. Hang him, hang him, torture him, kill him—" here weakness again came over the man. "O that I could live to see him hanged! It would atone for all that I have suffered. I would revel in the scene. But his fate soon overtook him. All that he had done so much to compass was lost, and he fell, he fell, lower than I. But he has risen again, risen only to fall into the abyss of hell, of hell."
Slabang fell back upon the pillow, his face terribly distorted, his features working in the last death struggle.
"Sign, sign," said Harry, hurriedly, fearing he would die before the important document could be sealed. But with a last supreme effort, Slabang took the pen and signed his name. Then he lay back, and the shadow of death fell heavily upon him. The sudden gust of human passion died away, and the cold, pale face assumed the dreamy look it wore when Harry entered.
Still he murmured, "Punish him, Harry, revenge her death."
"I will,", said Harry, "I will. But poor Will, think of the Land whither you are going, and pray to that Saviour who died for us."
"Yes, yes," faintly murmured the dying man, "I have repented in the dust, I have prayed to Him, but will he hear one who has given his best to the world and the devil, and has only the dregs left for his Redeemer? I remember the—old—hymn—
Seeking me thy worn feet hasted.
Seeking me thy soul death tasted,
Lord, shall all these toils be wasted."
Here his voice failed, but still he continued to murmur snatches of the glorious Dies Irae, a hymn befitting a parting soul. Only for a few moments, then came a strange stillness, and the sinning, suffering soul departed to meet Him who has said that his mercy is boundless and His love eternal.
"Into the Silent Land."
Harry stood silent over all that remained of the once gay, handsome William Slabang, and the moisture came into his eyes when ho thought of the lost life which had terminated there. The attendants in the meantime proceeded to close the dead man's eyes and perform those other offices which they looked upon as simply matters of business. Harry turned away. It was too much for his kind, susceptible heart.
There was a hurried step upon the stairs, the door opened, and Willy Dawson walked up to Harry, his face betraying unusual excitement. One glance showed him what had taken place, and he looked down upon the dead face with a feeling of awe.
"Mr. Robertson," said Willy, hurriedly, "there is not a moment to lose. Mrs. Wilton is waiting for you at St. Kilda. Something dreadful has happened, for she is more like a ghost than a living person. When she found
