On the morning of the fourth day from the night of the robbery we returned to Fern Bank. As yet we had obtained no tidings of Blurdon, and it was believed that he had at once gone off up country, bribing and frightening the natives to conceal him in their cottages during the day, and travelling on in any fashion that presented itself during the night. On the evening of our coming home, however, uncle brought us back an account that was at once as dreadful as it was unexpected.

All who have lived at the Cape know that even in the daytime, and to those well-acquainted with the geography of the Table Mountain, it is extremely unsafe to attempt to cross it while enveloped in mist, as in many parts the ground breaks off precipitately to a depth of some hundreds of feet; and these chasms or precipices, concealed by the clouds, have often proved graves to the ignorant and incautious. It was therefore with imminent peril that Blurdon endeavoured on that dark night to make his way over the mountain to the town. Nor did he escape the consequences of his wickedness and folly, for the furious wind that swept across the country made it still more difficult for him to find a way, and he fell over a height upon a bed of rocks, breaking his leg and arm and otherwise injuring himself.

Poor creature! Notwithstanding his ruffianly character, many a heart felt for him when his case was known. There he had lain for some time undiscovered on the rocks, alone and unaided in his agony. On the following evening, some negroes, taking advantage of the return of calm weather, were hunting on the mountain side for land crabs, and to their surprise and terror came upon the scarcely conscious form of the robber, whom one of them instantly recognized. With a compassionate care and gentleness which in the days of his strength he would have scorned, they conveyed him to the hospital, where he was immediately attended to.

Uncle went there as soon as he heard of the circumstance, to satisfy himself that this was really the man who had robbed us, and he found that the doctors had succeeded in restoring him to consciousness, but not in reducing the inflammation and swelling in the fractured leg and arm. It was feared that amputation of one or both limbs would be inevitable, and the long-delayed care of his wounds had brought on symptoms that threatened even his life. Some of his ribs also were broken, on the same side with the arm and leg, and his head was frightfully bruised and cut. "Altogether," said uncle, "he presented the most deplorable appearance of any human being I have ever seen in my life."

"Did he remember you, uncle? Did he say anything?" questioned Charlotte.

"Yes, I think he remembered me. He opened his feverish eyes upon me as if he did, but said nothing."

"Poor, wretched creature!" aunt exclaimed. "I trust he may not die. When you see him again, dear, which I hope will be soon, pray take the first opportunity to tell him how sincerely I feel for him, how deeply I regret the dreadful sufferings he has brought upon himself, and that, should it please the Almighty to spare his life, I shall not forget the promise I made him—nothing of the past will, by my means, be brought up against him."

"I propose going every day to see him," answered uncle, "until, at least, he is out of danger (if such a mercy awaits him), and will certainly deliver your message the instant I can do so unheard by others."

The next evening's account of the unfortunate Blurdon was, if possible, worse than the preceding—worse because hopeless. His life seemed now limited to a few days only. He knew it, and had been warned to employ, to the best of his power, the short time left him in this world, in seeking the mercy he had spurned or neglected.

"I told him all you said," continued uncle, "and after a moment's silence, during which his hard, dark face underwent several strongly-marked changes, he told me to bring him a coat which was thrown over the back of a chair. I did so, and then at his further desire passed my hand down between the lining and the coarse cloth almost to the bottom of the coat behind, and from thence drew out this chain and watch of yours, and these notes and sovereigns;" and uncle laid them all upon the table as he spoke.

"In a husky, broken voice he bade me return them to you. He had spent nothing out of it, he said; he has had no time. I promised to do as he requested. His voice and manner were full of a sort of reckless despair that to me was truly sad, and presently I spoke gently and kindly to him, as my little Mechie once did, and told him of the boundless love and compassion of our merciful Redeemer for even the greatest of sinners. Then I read to him about the thief on the cross, and concluded with a short prayer. I do not know what impression I made upon his darkened soul, or whether any at all; he said nothing, but lay quite still, his glittering eyes sometimes fixed on vacancy, sometimes on my face, though instantly averted if our looks met. As I rose to leave, saying I would, if possible, come and see him again to-morrow, he exclaimed suddenly, in a low voice, 'Are you her father? You speak and look just like her.' Guessing directly to whom he alluded, I told him no, but she was as dear to me as a daughter; did he wish to send any message to her? I would deliver it faithfully if he did.

"'Yes,' he answered, abruptly. 'Tell her Joe Blurdon wants her to come and speak to him again—just once more—as his poor old mother used to do. Tell her it won't be for more than once, maybe, for the doctors say my hours are numbered.'

"'God willing, I will bring her with me to-morrow,' I said. A softened light came up into his hard features, but he remained silent; and wishing him good-night, to which he made no response, I came away. And now, my little girl," continued uncle, turning to me, "what do you say to the promise I have made this unhappy man in your name?"

"Say, uncle?" I repeated, my heart throbbing painfully from mingled feelings; "I am glad you answered as you did. Oh, I hope, I wish, I could do him good!"

"You can but do your best, my child," aunt said, encouragingly. "Our blessed Redeemer assures us that even a cup of cold water given in his name shall have its reward, and think you, my little Mechie, that your compassionate endeavours to save from utter starvation this famished soul will not be highly pleasing in the sight of our gracious Saviour?"

Early on the following morning I awoke, and could sleep no more from thinking of the coming interview. The sun was just rising, and his golden light glinted here and there through the closed venetians into our large, well-furnished bed-room. Rising, I comforted my disquieted spirit by earnest prayer, then went out into the garden. How cheering and soothing are the early summer mornings on the high parts of the Cape! The extreme softness and dryness of the air, owing to the sandy quality of the soil, the sweet, harmonious call notes of myriads of birds, the several sorts of gay-coloured and innoxious insects out at that time, whose appearance adds yet more of life and brightness to the radiant combination of flowers and sunbeams around, and then the splendid boundless view of mountains, valleys and water, the glittering ocean, whose subdued, treacherous voice mingles so musically from the distance with all the other pleasant sounds of that waking hour and penetrates to quiet spots removed beyond reach of the sight and the noise of life's great commercial stir and conflict,—these things altogether present a union of delights rarely to be found, and the more to be enjoyed because of the beauty also of the climate.

But the day passed, and the time arrived for my painful and yet anxiously desired duty to be performed. The carriage conveyed me to the town, where, according to previous arrangement, I met and took up Uncle Rossiter. In a little while we reached the hospital, and I was soon seated by the bedside of the dying man. Uncle, after a few kind inquiries and the brief remark that he had brought his niece according to Blurdon's request, left us together and went to the end of the ward to speak to another sick person with whom he was acquainted.

At the first moment a sensation of faintness came over me. How frightfully changed he was from that morning when, in all the pride and power of unbroken strength, he had scowled defiance at me as he strode wrathfully away with his spade on his shoulder! With a strong effort I mastered my emotion, but although the endeavour to do so saved me from the weakness of fainting, it could not restrain my tears, and for a minute or two I sat silent, choking them down and wiping my eyes.

"I am so sorry for you, Blurdon!" I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak. "You have suffered so dreadfully! Let us hope that the merciful God, knowing the infirmity of our mortal nature and the temptations to forget him and to yield to sin to which your life has been more particularly exposed, has punished you so severely in this world in order that he may save your soul in the one to come."

He had watched me crying silently, and with a softening expression coming into his white face and his eyes fastened upon me, he said abruptly:

"Do you mind the other morning when I came after you on the Flats? I told him, and he believed me" (indicating uncle by a slight jerk of his thumb in his old fashion), "that I only wanted to ask your advice, but that was a lie—a lie as black as was my thought. I wanted to rob you—to take the chain and watch, and everything else you had about you." And as he spoke he seemed to experience a momentary relief from his confession, then again fell back exhausted and troubled. I knew that but few words could be allowed in such a case.

"Though your sins be as scarlet," I whispered, "they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."

He looked at me as if dimly understanding my meaning, but remained silent. For some time I sat by him with a strange confusion of thought, my heart beating violently and my prayers ascending in secret. Then I rose quickly, seized by a sudden, nervous desire to examine some bottles on a table near. He gasped and gazed after me as if he would have me stay. Again I sat down and spoke of the blood of Jesus Christ, which cleanseth from all sin, and I read to him the account of the Prodigal, his sin, his repentance and his return to his father. Then I turned to that other parable, so full of comfort to the repentant sinner, which tells of the labourers hired in the vineyard, and of those of the eleventh hour receiving in common with those of the early morning.

"So you perceive, Joe," I went on, "that while the holy Bible is abundant in threatenings and denunciations against the hardened sinner, it also abounds in promises and encouragements to the sorrowful and penitent—to those who, in true lowliness of heart, come to their heavenly Father declaring their utter unworthiness to be his sons and imploring him to receive them, if only as hired servants."

I did not dare to say much more, and it was almost a relief to me when uncle came to take me home. A tear I could not restrain fell upon the wretched man's hand as I rose to go. He noted it, and started.

"Ah, my friend," said uncle earnestly and slowly, "you felt that tear, but I say unto you, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance."