n, you will, I am sure, look back with wonder and pity as
if reading the memoir of another. I _know_ that spells of
self-forgiveness come to us mercifully."

"When I listen to you, and hear in the tones of your voice more even
than in your words that you are my friend, that you really care for me,
that it will be a real joy to you to see me rise above myself, I feel
that I can live and strive and be something more than a galvanized
corpse. You give me strength. I wonder if I shall ever be able to prove
to you what you have done for me. Stand by me, and I _will_ try to put
the past under my feet. I do not wish to presume on the great goodness
you have shown me nor to forget the difference between us socially, but
oh! let me believe you love me--even me--with the kindly affection that
can forgive even while it blames."

"Be assured of that, Rachel," cried Katherine, her eyes moist and
beautiful with the divine light of kindness and sympathy, as she
stretched out her hand to clasp Rachel's. "I have from the first been
drawn to you strangely--it is something instinctive--and I have firm
belief in your future, if you will but believe in yourself. You are a
strong, brave woman, who can dare to look truth in the face. You will be
useful and successful yet."

Rachel held her hand tightly for a minute in silence; then she said, in
a low but firm voice: "I will try to realize your belief. I should be
too unworthy if I failed to do my very best. There! I have discarded the
past; you shall hear of it no more."

They were silent for a while; then a solemn old eight-day clock with a
fine tone struck loudly and deliberatedly in the room below. Katherine,
with a smile, counted each stroke. "Nine!" she exclaimed, when the last
had sounded; "and though it is 9 P.M., let it be the first hour of your
new life." She rose, and passing her arm over Rachel's shoulder, kissed
her once more with sisterly warmth. "Mr. Payne is waiting for me, so I
must leave you. I have sent you some books; I have but few here. One
will amuse you, I am sure, though it is old enough--a translation of the
_Memoirs of Madam d'Abrantes_. It is full of such quaint pictures of the
great Napoleon's court, and does not display much dignity or nobility,
yet it is an honest sort of book."

"Thank you. I don't want novels now; they generally pain me. But my
greatest solace is to forget myself in a book."

Bertie Payne's visit was a very happy one. The boys adored him,