his own father
doating over the memory of another son. That son had supplanted
himself; that son's mother had supplanted his own mother; and yet he,
in his ignorance, had all but wept for both of them. But no matter,
he was now to be God's own right hand of justice on this evil-doer.

Dawn was breaking, and its woolly light crept lazily in at the little
window, past the lamp that still burned on the window board. The wind
had fallen, and the sea lay gloomy and dark, as if with its own heavy
memories of last night's work. The gray light fell on the sick man's
face, and under Jason's eyes it seemed to light up the poor,
miserable, naked soul within. The delirium had now set in strong, and
many were the wild words and frequent was the cry that rang through
the little house.

"Not while he is like that," thought Jason. "I will wait for the
lull."

He took up a pillow in both hands and stood by the bed and waited,
never lifting his eyes off the face. But the lull did not come. Would
it not come at all? What if the delirium were never to pass away?
Could he still do the thing he intended? No, no, no! But Heaven had
heard his vow and led him there. The delirium would yet pass; then he
would accuse his father, face to face and eye to eye, and then--

The current of Jason's thoughts was suddenly arrested by a cry from
the sick man. It was "Rachel! Rachel! Rachel!" spoken in a voice of
deep entreaty, and there came after it in disjointed words of the
Icelandic tongue a pitiful appeal for forgiveness. At that a great
fear seized upon Jason, and the pillow dropped from his hands to the
ground. "Rachel! Rachel!" It was the old cry of the years that were
gone, but working with how great a difference--then, to stir up evil
passions--now, to break down the spirit of revenge.

"Rachel! Rachel!" came again in the same pitiful voice of
supplication; and at the sound of that name so spoken, the bitterness
of Jason's heart went off like a wail of the wind. It was a cry of
remorse; a cry for pardon; a cry for mercy. There could be no
jugglery. In that hour of the mind's awful vanquishment a human soul
stood naked behind him as before its Maker.

Jason's great resolve was shaken. Had it been only a blind tangle of
passion and pain? If the Almighty had called him to be the instrument
of His vengeance, would He have delivered his enemy into his hands
like this--dying, delirious, with broken brain and broken heart?

Still his mother's