A young man had fallen on the floor， and lay stone deadwith a ghastly wound crushed into his temple， while overhim， with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in hiscountenance， stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith.
The murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer.
“What does this rascal of a painter mean？” cries Mr.
Smith， provoked beyond all patience. “Edward Spencerwas my earliest and dearest friend， true to me as I to himthrough more than half a century. Neither I nor any otherever murdered him. Was he not alive within five years， anddid he not， in token of our long friendship， bequeath mehis gold-headed cane and a mourning-ring？”
Again had Memory been turning over her volume， andfixed at length upon so confused a page that she surelymust have scribbled it when she was tipsy. The purportwas， however， that while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencerwere heating their young blood with wine a quarrel hadflashed up between them， and Mr. Smith， in deadly wrath，had flung a bottle at Spencer’s head. True， it missed itsaim and merely smashed a looking-glass； and the nextmorning， when the incident was imperfectly remembered，they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. Yet， again，while Memory was reading， Conscience unveiled her face，struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith and quelled hisremonstrance with her iron frown. The pain was quiteexcruciating.
Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtfula touch， and in colors so faint and pale， that the subjectscould barely be conjectured. A dull， semi-transparentmist had been thrown over the surface of the canvas， intowhich the figures seemed to vanish while the eye soughtmost earnestly to fix them. But in every scene， howeverdubiously portrayed， Mr. Smith was invariably hauntedby his own lineaments at various ages as in a dusty mirror.
After poring several minutes over one of these blurred andalmost indistinguishable pictures， he began to see that thepainter had intended to represent him， now in the declineof life， as stripping the clothes from the backs of threehalf-starved children. “Really， this puzzles me！” quothMr. Smith， with the irony of conscious rectitude. “Askingpardon of the painter， I pronounce him a fool as well as ascandalous knave. A man of my standing in the world tobe robbing little children of their clothes！ Ridiculous！”
But while he spoke Memory had searched her fatalvolume and found a page which with her sad calm voiceshe poured into his ear. It was not altogether inapplicableto the misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had beengrievously tempted by many devilish sophistries， on theground of a legal quibble， to commence a lawsuit againstthree orphan-children， joint-heirs to a considerable estate.
Fortunately， before he was quite decided， his claims hadturned out nearly as devoid of law as justice. As Memoryceased to read Conscience again thrust aside her mantle，and would have struck her victim with the envenomeddagger only that he struggled and clasped his hands beforehis heart. Even then， however， he sustained an ugly gash.
