THE FORCED VISIT.

The crowd of people who had witnessed this scene in the lecture room, were low, obtuse natures, on whom the simple words which had almost paralysed the speaker before their eyes, made but a momentary impression. They only saw that he was exhausted and completely broken down. This eloquence had been their principal attraction, and when another speaker took the desk, half the crowd broke up in confusion. With the various groups that went out of the rooms and swept into the street, the man whose sublime eloquence had assembled them, disappeared. For a little time he lingered near the church, and creeping into its blackest shadows, laid his forehead against the rugged walls.

"Oh my God! my God, help me! help me! for this, mine enemy, has found me out."

His voice was broken, his breath came sharply; he rested his forehead against the cold stone, and, though fever was in his veins, shuddered with the chill. All at once a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a light laugh sounded in his ears.

"So, my friend, we have met once more," said a voice that made the man shrink; but he turned with some degree of courage, and answered rather sadly:

"Yes, I recognised your voice."

"And I yours. It has lost nothing of its power. No wonder the beggars swarm around you. They do not always get eloquence from so pure a source."

The speaker made no reply; he was evidently used to the jeers of this man, and endured them without resistance.

"Upon my word," said the traveler, "I should think the very sight of me had struck you dumb."

"It is only another curse come back," muttered the tortured man, as he moved away from the church.

"Come, Hudson, let us have a talk together, this is a cold meeting for old friends like us. You have no idea how long I have been searching for you."

The man addressed as Hudson, turned upon his persecutor with a look and gesture of pathetic appeal.

"Why is it that you search for me? The time has passed when we can meet with pleasure or profit. Leave me, Church; in mercy leave me to go on my path alone. It is dreary enough—how dreary, the God who will judge us both, only knows."

"Leave you, Hudson? Indeed I will do no such thing; we have been fast friends too long for that"

"Friends?" muttered the wretched man, bitterly, "I have no friends and deserve none."

"But what wretches we should be if no man got more than his deserts? You are far too modest, Hudson; upon my soul you are a wonderful creature. Why, half that crowd of beggars were crying like babies. Once or twice I felt the mist creeping into my own eyes."

"Then why did you linger, tears should speak of forbearance; why not go away and leave me in peace?"

"Because I mean yet to be of service to you."

"Of service to me."

"Yes, certainly, by the looks of your coat you do not seem to have a superabundance of prosperity. Tell me how you are getting on."

"I have liberty, a roof to shelter me, and generally enough to eat."

"But not a dollar laid by for a rainy day?"

"All days are rainy to me!"

"I understand; but your daughter. She was a bright little thing. What of her?"

"Constance is well, and getting very womanly."

"Does she live with you?"

"Yes."

"And have you no ambition for her?"

"Ambition! no, I only wish to keep her safe, and make her better than her father has been."

"Is she pretty?"

"I do not know."

"Clever?"

"Yes, there are few things my child cannot do when she puts her energies forth."

"Free of heart?"

"Constance is very young, and sees but few people."

"But where does she live?"

"With her father!"

"Then I can imagine that her home is not a sumptuous one."

"It is the best I can give her as yet."

"But how can you deal fairly by the girl, when your time is spent in such places as I found you in to-night?"

"Do not question or revile me, Church, I have duties to my fellow men, and atonements to make. It is only such people as you saw me with to-night, that I dare approach; even in a holy cause I cannot shut out three bitter years of my life, but while God gives me breath, I will do my best to atone for them."

"Unfortunately, these infernal laws of ours are vampires that accept no atonement," said Church, with emphasis.

A shudder crept over Hudson and he turned a white, appealing face on his tormentor, but made no answer, save in a deep sigh.

"Are you going home now," said Church, answering this pathetic look with a smile, full of subtle cruelty.

"I have no where else to go, at this time of night," answered Hudson, sadly.

"Then I will take a look at your home, and pay my respects to little Constance."

The instruments of torture were on Hudson, and he could only submit, but his heart turned to lead in his bosom, and his step grew heavy as he approached the tenement house, which was all the home he knew. Without a word of protest he turned into a cross street, and entered one of those old-fashioned brick houses that are still left in the lower part of the city, waiting for the fast progress of business to sweep them away.

The two men entered a narrow hall, dark as Egypt, and mounted a flight of rickety stairs, which led to a dingy parlor and small bed room both furnished with ill matched articles, so shabby and faded that the utmost care could not have given it even a comfortable appearance.

A dull lamp burned upon the table, but this was only sufficient to reveal the general destitution of the place, which really shocked the man, Church, to whom poverty was far more hateful than sin.

"Your girl does not seem to be at home," said Church, with an accent of pity in his voice. "No wonder, I should say."

That moment a light step was heard on the stairs above, and the parlor door opened far enough to admit a little bright face.

"Mr. Hudson, is that you," said a childish voice. "Miss Constance told me to say that she has gone to Wallack's theatre with Mr. Sterling, if you got home before she did, but I did not expect you home so early."

The door closed, and Rhoda Weeks' bright face disappeared.

"Gone to the theatre, has she?" said Church, taking out his watch. "There is time yet, I will just drop in and see if I can make out your daughter among so many people. I think there can be no mistaking her eyes; perhaps I shall come home with her. You won't object to that, I suppose. She has an escort, of course, but she will find room on the pavement for her father's old friend, I dare say."

Church took off the linen duster from over a suit of handsome black, flung it across a sofa, and smoothed his hair with a pocket comb, before a paltry looking-glass upon the mantel-piece.

Hudson watched these movements with a look of haggard misery in his eyes. When his forced guest went out, he fell upon his knees and sobbed like a child.

"Oh, my God, my God, help me to struggle, help me to resist, or let me die now, imploring mercy."

The door opened softly, and Rhoda Weeks crept in. Hudson had lifted his voice, and it was so full of anguish, that the girl had run down to comfort him.

"Don't, Mr. Hudson, don't take on so! She didn't think you would mind her going to the theatre. It's only Mr. Sterling has gone with her, you know."

Hudson lifted his face, and attempted to answer the girl's consolations with a smile, but the effort was so sad that she only cried out again:

"Oh, don't—don't. She hasn't done anything to make you feel like that."