his own inexperienced kindly heart. And so and so—why, so end half the efforts of men who intrust to others the troublesome execution of humane intentions! The scales of early justice are poised in their quivering equilibrium, not by huge hundred-weights, but by infinitesimal grains, needing the most wary caution—the most considerate patience—the most delicate touch, to arrange or readjust. Few of our errors, national or individual, come from the design to be unjust—most of them from sloth, or incapacity to grapple with the difficulties of being just. Sins of commission may not, perhaps, shock the retrospect of conscience. Large and obtrusive to view, we have confessed, mourned, repented, possibly atoned them. Sins of omission, so veiled amidst our hourly emotions—blent, confused, unseen, in the conventional routine of existence.—Alas! could these suddenly emerge from their shadow, group together in serried mass and accusing order—alas, alas! would not the best of us then start in dismay, and would not the proudest humble himself at the Throne of Mercy!
CHAPTER XIX.
But we have left Mr. Rugge at Mrs. Crane's door; admit him. He bursts into her drawing-room, wiping his brows.
"Ma'am, they are off to America—!"
"So I have heard. You are fairly entitled to the return of your money—"
"Entitled, of course; but—"
"There it is; restore to me the contract for the child's services."
Rugge gazed on a roll of bank-notes, and could scarcely believe his eyes. He darted forth his hand, the notes receded like the dagger in Macbeth, "First the contract," said Mrs. Crane. Rugge drew out his greasy pocket-book, and extracted the worthless engagement.
"Henceforth, then," said Mrs. Crane, "you have no right to complain; and whether or not the girl ever again falls in your way your claim over her ceases."
"The gods be praised, it does, ma'am; I have had quite
