to assist me in rising.

I had no faith in this man's murderousness, whatever he might have done.
He led me around to the head-stone of the grave which he had asked my
knowledge of. Before I could see, he passed his hand across my eyes: how
cold it was!

"When you see the name recorded here," he said, "you will know who saved
me that August night, whom my terrible will destroyed, drinking her
young life up in one fell cup."

His hand was withdrawn for one moment; my sight was blinded with the
cold pressure on my eyes; then I read,--

MARY,
DAUGHTER OF
JULIUS AND MARY PERCIVAL,

DIED
AUGUST 30th, 1843,
AGED
17 YEARS.

"My sister," I said

"Your sister, whom I killed."

"Ere I was old enough to know her."

"Have you one drop of mercy for him who destroyed your sister?" he
asked,--and his haughty will was suffused in pleading.

I thought of the third figure in the celestial picture, as it gazed upon
the outstretched hand, and I said,--

"God hath not made me your judge; why should I refuse mercy?"

A flash of intuition came. The young girl, whose portrait was in the
house of the Axtells, whose face had been next my mother's, who asked me
to do something for her on the earth,--could they all be manifestations
of Mary?

"Who painted the portrait in your house?" I asked.

"My will," he said; "I am no artist."

"Is it like Mary?"

"Yes."

"Then I have this day seen her."

He looked up, great tears falling from his eyes, and asked,--

"Where?"

I took him to the gallery of the clouds, and showed him my vision, and
repeated the words spoken to me up there, the words for him only,--the
others were full of mystery still. He held seemingly no part therein.

"Will a murderer's prayer add one ray of joy to the angel who has come
out on the sea to save me,--me, twice saved, oh! why?"--and Mr. Axtell
laid his hand upon my head in blessing.

"Twice saved," I said, "that the third salvation may be Christ's."

Solemnly came the "Amen" from his lips, tremulous as the bridge of light
he had once passed over.

"Good-bye, Mr. Axtell; I shall fulfil Mary's wish for you, if you will
let me;" and I offered him my hand for this second parting: the first
had been when he went out alone to his mother's burial.

He looked at it, as he then had done, uncomprehending, and said only,--

"Will I let you?"

He gathered up the cushion, and carried it to the church. I closed the
gate that shut in this