t him.

His torture was beginning to be quite unbearable; he fancied his soul was
actually wounded, riven, and torn; it had even occurred to him to seize
his sharpest sword and throw himself upon it like Ajax in his fury--and
like Cato--and so put a sudden end to this intolerable and overwhelming
misery.

He started up for--surely it was no illusion, no mistake-the door of his
room was softly opened and a white figure came in with noiseless, ghostly
steps. He was a brave man, but his blood ran cold; however, in a moment
he recognized his nocturnal visitor as little Mary. She came across the
moonlight without speaking, but he exclaimed in a sharp tone:

"What is the meaning of this? What do you want?"

The child started and stood still in alarm, stretching out imploring
hands and whispering timidly:

"I heard you lamenting. Poor, poor Orion! And it was I who brought it all
on you, and so I could not stay in bed any longer--I must--I could not
help. . . ." But she could say no more for sobs. Orion exclaimed:

"Very well, very well: go back to your own room and sleep. I will try not
to groan so loud."

He ended his speech in a less rough tone, for he observed that the child
had come to see him, though she was ill, with bare feet and only in her
night-shift, and was trembling with cold, excitement, and grief. Mary,
however, stood still, shook her head, and replied, still weeping though
less violently:

"No, no. I shall stop here and not go away till you tell me that you--Oh,
God, you never can forgive me, but still I must say it, I must."

With a sudden impulse she ran straight up to him, threw her arms round
his neck, laid her head against his, and then, as he did not immediately
push her away, kissed his cheeks and brow.

At this a strange feeling came over him; he himself did not know what it
was, but it was as though something within him yielded and gave way, and
the moisture which felt warm in his eyes and on his cheeks was not from
the child's tears but his own. This lasted through many minutes of
silence; but at last he took the little one's arms from about his neck,
saying:

"How hot your hands and your cheeks are, poor thing! You are feverish,
and the night air blows in chill--you will catch fresh cold by this mad
behavior."

He had controlled his tears with difficulty, and as he spoke, in broken
accents, he carefully wrapped her in the black robe he had thrown off and
said kindly:

"Now, be calm,