THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER NINTH.

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In the same room which has been already described, in Harry Harson's dwelling, and in one of the stout, plethoric chairs before mentioned as constituting a part of its furniture, and beneath the superintendence of the busy clock, and under the watchful eye of that respectable dog Spite, sat Jacob Rhoneland, with his elbow resting on the table, his cheek leaning on the palm of his hand, and his eyes half shaded by his long blanched locks, listening with deep anxiety to Harson, who occupied a chair opposite, and was speaking with an earnestness which showed that the subject on which he discoursed was one in which he felt no slight interest.

The manner of old Rhoneland would have attracted the notice of even a casual observer. He seemed restless and nervous; and at times even frightened. Occasionally he smiled faintly, and shaking his head, half rose from his seat, but sat down, scarcely conscious of what he did; and leaning his forehead on the palm of his hand, seemed to listen with breathless attention, as if dreading to lose a word of Harson's remarks, which were occasionally strengthened by his pressing his hand gently on Rhoneland's, as it rested on the table. At last, Harson, in conclusion, said in an earnest tone: Now tell me, Jacob, on your honor, do you love her?'

'Do I love her?' repeated Rhoneland; 'do I love my own little Kate, who slept in my arms when a child, and who, now that she has become quite a woman, and I am gray, and feeble, and broken down, still clings to me? Others found me a querulous, troublesome old man, and fell away from me; but she never did. Do n't ask me if I love her, Harry, do n't ask that again,' said he, shaking his head, and looking reproachfully at Harson. Do I think of any one else, or care for any one else? Dead and frosty as this old heart is, she has the whole of it; and she deserves it; God bless her! God bless her! It's not a little matter that would make me forget Kate.'

The old man raised his head; and his eye lighted up with an expression of pride, as he thought of his child. It was transient, and as it passed off he seemed to be absorbed in deep thought; and sat for some time with his eye resting on a small speck of blue sky which looked cheerily in at the open window. What strange things peopled those few moments of thought; for each moment in the memory of the old is teeming with phantoms of hopes and dreams, which once crowded about them; familiar things, part of them

selves, of their very being, but now melted into air; faded and gone, they cannot tell when or whither; and of faces and forms long since shrouded in the tomb. And in the dim fancy of age, in faint whispers, speak voices whose tones are never to be heard again; awakening old affections for those at rest, subdued indeed by time, but yet unextinguished, and slumbering in hidden corners of memory, and appealing to the heart of the living, and begging still to be cherished there. Rhoneland sighed as he turned his eyes from the window, and looked down at his withered hands. They were not so when Kate was a child. He was far from young, even then, but not so old and shattered as now. Kate's mother was living too; she was much younger than he was; and he had hoped that she would have outlived him; but he had followed her to the grave, and he was left alone with his little girl.' His lip quivered; for he remembered her watchful kindness; her patience; the many marks of affection which had escaped her, showing that he was always uppermost in her thoughts; and that amid all other occupations, she never forgot him. They were trifling indeed; perhaps unnoticed at the time; but he missed them when she was in her grave, and they came no more. She had begged him to cherish and guard their child when she should be gone, and there would be none to love her but him. Had he done so? Ay! with heart and soul; with heart and soul,' muttered he, rising and walking across the room, to conceal the working of his countenance, and the tears which started in his eyes.

'Oh Harry!' said he, turning to Harson, 'if you knew all, you would n't ask if I love Kate. She's every thing to me now. All are gone but her; all-all!'

He returned, and seated himself, with a deep sigh. His lips moved as if he were speaking, though no sound escaped them; but after a moment he said: 'It's all that I can do for one who's dead.'

'I do believe that your child is dear to you, Jacob; I never doubted it,' said Harson; but there is another question which I must ask. 'Have you observed her of late? Have you noticed her drooping eye, her want of spirits, and failing strength?'

Rhoneland moved restlessly in his chair, and then answered: 'No, no, Harry, you 're jesting. Kate's eye is bright, and her cheek full and round; her step elastic and firm. I watch that, Harson. Oh! Harry, you don't dream how anxiously I watch her. Her life is mine; her heart's blood is my heart's blood. She's in no danger, no danger, Harry,' said he, taking Harson's hand between his, and looking appealingly in his face. Is she in any danger? Don't deceive me. Is any thing the matter with her?"

'No, not just now,' replied Harson. But suppose you should see her becoming thin, and her looks and health failing; and even though she should not die, suppose her young heart was heavy, and her happiness destroyed-and by you?'

The old man looked at Harson with a troubled, wistful eye, as he said: Well, Harry, well; I'm old — very old; do n't trifle with me, I can't bear it. What do you mean? Is Kate ill?'

'No, not exactly ill,' replied Harson, much at a loss how to introduce his subject. Suppose, in short, that she should fall in love, some day for young girls will do these things—and suppose that the young fellow was a noble, frank-hearted boy, like like Ned Somers, for instance. would you thwart her? I only say suppose it to be Somers.'

Kate does n't think of these things,' said the old man, in a querulous tone. She's a child; a mere child. It will be time enough to talk of them years hence. God help me!' muttered he, pressing his hands together, 'Can it be that she, my own little Kate, will desert me? I'll not believe it! She's but a child, Harry; only a child.'

Kate is nearly eighteen, Jacob,' replied Harson, and quite a woman for her years. She's beautiful, too. I pretend to no knowledge of women's hearts, nor of the precise age at which they think of other things than their dolls; but were I a young fellow, and were such a girl as Kate Rhoneland in my neighborhood, I should have been over head and ears in love, months ago.'

Jacob Rhoneland folded his hands on the table, and leaned his head upon them, without speaking, until Harson said, after the lapse of some minutes, 'Come, Jacob, what ails you?'

Without making any reply to this question, Rhoneland sat up, and looking him full in the face, asked, in a sad tone: Do you think, Harry, that Kate, my own child, has turned her back upon me, and given her heart to a stranger? And do you think that she will desert her father in his old age, and leave him to die alone?'

'Come, come, Rhoneland, this is too bad,' said Harson; 'this is mere nonsense If the girl should happen to cast a kind glance at Ned, Ned's a fine fellow; and if Ned should happen to think that Kate had not her equal among all whom he knew, he would be perfectly right. And then if, in the course of time, they should happen to carry matters farther, and get married, I do n't see why you should take it to heart, or should talk of desertion, and dying alone. I'll warrant you Ned is not the man to induce a girl to abandon her friends. No, no; he's too true-hearted for that.'

'Well, well,' said the old man, rising and gazing anxiously about him, 'God grant that it may never happen. It will be a sad day for me when it does. I'd rather be in my grave. I cannot tell you all; but if you knew what I do, perhaps you'd think so too. Indeed you would, Harry. There's one who knows more about Somers than either you or I; much that's bad, very bad. I can't tell his name.'

'I know it already,' replied Harson: Michael Rust.'

'Ha!' ejaculated Rhoneland, in a faint voice, his cheek growing ghastly pale; 'You know Michael Rust, do you?'

'I know something of him, and but little in his favor. What he says against Somers is not worth thinking of. Let him clear his own naine. Perhaps he may be called on to do it some day, and may find it no easy matter. And now, my old friend,' said he, taking Rhoneland by the hand, since we have spoken of this Rust, let

me caution you against him. Listen to no tales of his respecting Kate, or Ned, or any one else. Beware of all connection with him. Above all, give him no hold on yourself; for if you do, depend on it, you'll rue it. I've made inquiries about him; and you may rest assured that I do not speak unadvisedly.'

Rhoneland had risen to go; but as Harson spoke he sank feebly in his chair, and buried his face in his hands, his long hair falling over them, and shrouding them and it from view; but no sound of emotion escaped him; although Harson could see that he trembled violently, and that there was a great internal struggle going on. At last he said: 'It's very hard, Harry, to feel, that you are in the power of a man who would not hesitate to sacrifice even your life to his own ends; and yet to know that it must be so; that, hate and loathe as you may, your fate is linked with his, and that he and you must sink or swim together. But so it is, God help me! a poor, bewildered old man! Oh! Harry, could I but die, with none to molest me, or see me, but my own dear child; with no one to haunt my death-bed, and torture me; and threaten me and her; and could I but know that when I am gone she at least will be happy, I'd do it, Harry, I'd do it! Life is not to me what it once was. It's dull enough, now.'

'And who is this who has such power over you?' inquired Har son, placing his hand on his shoulder; 'Come, be frank with me, Jacob; who is it? Is it Michael Rust?'

Rhoneland started up, looked suspiciously about the room, and said in a quick, husky voice: 'Did I say it was Rust? I'm sure I did not, Harry. Oh! no, not Rust. He's a noble, generous fellow; so frank, and free, and bold. Oh! no, not Rust; he's my best friend. I would n't offend Rust, nor thwart him, nor cross his path, nor even look coldly on him. Oh no, no, no! Don't speak of him. I don't like to talk of him. Let's speak of something else; of yourself, or Ned, or Kate-of Kate, my own dear little Kate. She's a noble girl, Harry, is she not? Ha! ha! that she is!' and the old man laughed faintly, drew a deep sigh, and turned abruptly

away.

'Harry,' said he, after a pause,' Will you make me a promise?' 'If it is one which a man may honestly keep, I will,' replied Harson. 'When I am dead will you be a father to Kate?-love her as I have loved her- no, no that you cannot - but love her you can, and will; and above all,' said he, sinking his voice, 'let no evil tales respecting her father be whispered in her ear; let her believe that he was all that was virtuous and good. It's an honest fraud, Harry, a deceit without sin in it, and I know you'll do it; for when I'm in my grave, her heart will be the last hold I shall have on earth. When the dead are swept from memory, too, the earth is lost to them indeed. Will you promise, Harry?'

'I will,' said Harson; as my own child, will I guard her from all

harm.'

'That's all; and now, God bless you! I've lingered here too long. Don't forget your promise. I feel happier for it, even now.'