He knew himself
to be the wretch and outcast he was; and, looking back at his start in
life, he could but remember how different his career might have been
had he so chosen.
In those hours the slow tears made furrows in his haggard cheeks--the
tears of remorse, vain repentance, that came too late for earth; but
not, perhaps, utterly too late for heaven, since, even for this last
and worst of sinners, there might be mercy.
Thus his life passed--a changeless routine, unbroken by one bright
interval, one friendly visit, one sign or token to show that there was
any link between this lonely wretch and the rest of humanity.
One day the porter, who lived in a little den at the bottom of the
lodging-house staircase, suddenly missed the familiar figure which had
gone by his rabbit-hutch every day for the last six years; the besotted
face that had stared at him morning and evening with the blank,
unseeing gaze of the habitual drunkard.
"What has become of the old toper who lives up yonder among the
chimney-pots?" cried the porter, suddenly, to the wife of his bosom. "I
have not seen him to-day nor yesterday, nor for many days. He must be
ill. I will go upstairs and make inquiries by-and-by, when I have
leisure."
The porter waited for a leisure half-hour after dark, and then tramped
wearily up the steep old staircase with a lighted candle to see after
the missing lodger.
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