eyes, and Silas found himself once more face to face with the loiterer of Box Court. 

 “Good-night, sir,” said the man, pleasantly. 

 But Silas was too profoundly moved to find an answer, and regained his room in silence. 

 Towards morning, worn out by apprehension, he fell asleep on his chair, with his head forward on the trunk. In spite of so constrained an attitude and such a grisly pillow, his slumber was sound and prolonged, and he was only awakened at a late hour and by a sharp tapping at the door. 

 He hurried to open, and found the boots without. 

 “You are the gentleman who called yesterday at Box Court?” he asked. 

 Silas, with a quaver, admitted that he had done so. 

 “Then this note is for you,” added the servant, proffering a sealed envelope. 

 Silas tore it open, and found inside the words: “Twelve o’clock.” 

 He was punctual to the hour; the trunk was carried before him by several stout servants; and he was himself ushered into a room, where a man sat warming himself before the fire with his back towards the door. The sound of so many persons entering and leaving, and the scraping of the trunk as it was deposited upon the bare boards, were alike unable to attract the notice of the occupant; and Silas stood waiting, in an agony of fear, until he should deign to recognise his presence. 

 Perhaps five minutes had elapsed before the man turned leisurely about, and disclosed the features of Prince Florizel of Bohemia. 

 “So, sir,” he said, with great severity, “this is the manner in which you abuse my politeness. You join yourselves to persons of condition, I perceive, for no other purpose than to escape the consequences of your crimes; and I can readily understand your embarrassment when I addressed myself to you yesterday.” 

 “Indeed,” cried Silas, “I am innocent of everything except misfortune.” 

 And in a hurried voice, and with the greatest ingenuousness, he recounted to the Prince the whole history of his calamity. 

 “I see I have been mistaken,” said his 

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