“It is hopeless, poor Stephen.  The surgeons say you cannot live one day.”

Spike groaned—­for the past, blended fearfully with the future, gleamed on his conscience with a brightness that appalled him.  And what is that future, which is to make us happy or miserable through an endless vista of time?  Is it not composed of an existence, in which conscience, released from the delusions and weaknesses of the body, sees all in its true colours, appreciates all, and punishes all?  Such an existence would make every man the keeper of the record of his own transgressions, even to the most minute exactness.  It would of itself mete out perfect justice, since the sin would be seen amid its accompanying facts, every aggravating or extenuating circumstance.  Each man would be strictly punished according to his talents.  As no one is without sin, it makes the necessity of an atonement indispensable, and, in its most rigid interpretation, it exhibits the truth of the scheme of salvation in the clearest colours.  The soul, or conscience, that can admit the necessary degree of faith in that atonement, and in admitting, feels its efficacy, throws the burthen of its own transgressions away, and remains for ever in the condition of its original existence, pure, and consequently happy.

We do not presume to lay down a creed on this mighty and mysterious matter, in which all have so deep an interest, and concerning which so very small a portion of the human race think much, or think with any clearness when it does become the subject of their passing thoughts at all We too well know our own ignorance to venture on dogmas which it has probably been intended that the mind of man should not yet grapple with and comprehend.  To return to our subject.

Stephen Spike was now made to feel the incubus-load, which perseverance in sin heaps on the breast of the reckless offender.  What was the most grievous of all, his power to shake off this dead weight was diminished in precisely the same proportion as the burthen was increased, the moral force of every man lessening in a very just ratio to the magnitude of his delinquencies.  Bitterly did this deep offender struggle with his conscience, and little did his half-unsexed wife know how to console or aid him.  Jack had been superficially instructed in the dogmas of her faith, in childhood and youth, as most persons are instructed in what are termed Christian communities—­had been made to learn the Catechism, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Creed—­and had been left to set up for herself on this small capital, in the great concern of human existence, on her marriage and entrance on the active business of life.  When the manner in which she had passed the last twenty years is remembered, no one can be surprised to learn that Jack was of little assistance to her husband in his extremity.  Rose made an effort to administer hope and consolation, but the terrible nature of the struggle she witnessed, induced her to send for the