“No,” returned Vernon, with a start; for, with all his vices and his crimes, a sense of respect for the name and honor of his family had outlived the good principles imbibed upon a mother’s knee.  Although a villain in almost every sense of the word, there were many redeeming traits in his character, which the reader will be willing to believe, on recalling his expressions of conscientiousness uttered to Maxwell.  Family pride is often hereditary, and the reverses and degradations of a lifetime cannot extinguish it.  It was so with Vernon.  His real name was unknown, even among his most intimate associates.  He had early taken the precaution—­not in deference to the feelings of his father—­to assume a name; it was from pride of birth, which shuddered more at the thought of a stain upon the family escutcheon than at all the crimes which may canker and corrode the heart.

“My mother is not living,” continued he; “but how know you this?”

“It don’t matter, stranger.  Have you seen your father lately?”

“Not for many years.  I am an outcast from his presence,” replied Vernon, with some appearance of feeling.

“That’s onfortunate; does he know what sort of a lark you are?”

“I hope not,” replied Vernon, with a sickly smile.

“But he does; he knows all about this ongodly scrape you got into last night.”

“What mean you?” said the ruffian, sternly.

“Mean?  Why, just exactly what I say, Mr. Vaudelier!  Don’t start!  I know you as well as you know yourself.”

Vernon bit his lips; he was confounded at hearing his name uttered,—­a name which had not greeted his ears for many years.  His passion was disarmed before the rude but cutting speech of the woodman, whose knowledge of human nature, bred in the woods as he had been, was remarkable.  There are men in the world, supposed to be entirely intractable, who, when rightly approached, prove as gentle as lambs.  There is no evil without its antidote, however deeply it may be hid from the knowledge of man; and there is no man so vile that he cannot be reformed.  The image of God, marred and disfigured as it may be, exists in every man, as the faultless statue exists in the rough block of marble; from which, when the fashioning hand, aided by the magic of genius, touches it, the imago of beauty shall come forth.  So, when man, in whom always exists the elements of the highest character, shall be approached by the true reformer,—­the highest and truest genius,—­the bright ideal shall assume the actual form.

The woodman had touched a chord in the heart of the gambler which vibrated at his touch.  It was not the words, but the genuine sympathy with which they were laden, that overcame the indifference of the vicious man.  Perceiving his advantage, the woodman followed it up, repeatedly disarming the bolt of passion, which was poised in the mind of his auditor.

“Your father,” said Jerry, “is a good man, and you mought go round the world without finding a better.”