ve him, I am afraid," she said to herself; "but I
shall never trust him again,--never!"

And hour by hour Stephen was waiting and looking for his letter.

Chapter XII.

Stephen took Mercy's letter from the post-office at night. It was one week
past the time at which it would have reached him, if it had been written
immediately on the receipt of his. Only too well he knew what the delay
meant. He turned the letter over and over in his hand, and noted without
surprise it was very light. The superscription was written with unusual
care. Mercy's handwriting was free and bold, but illegible, unless she
made a special effort to write with care; and she never made that effort
in writing to Stephen. How many times he had said to her: "Never mind how
you write to me, dear. I read your sentences by another sense than the
sense of sight." This formally and neatly written, superscription smote
him, as a formal bow and a chilling glance from Mercy would, if he had
passed her on the street.

He carried the letter home unopened. All through the evening it lay like a
leaden weight in his bosom, as he sat by his mother's side. He dared not
read it until he was sure of being able to be alone for hours. At last he
was free. As he went upstairs to his room, he thought to himself, "This is
the hour at which I used to fly to her, and find such welcome. A year ago
to-night how happy we were!" With a strange disposition to put off the
opening of the letter, he moved about his room, rearranged the books,
lighted an extra lamp, and finally sat down in an arm-chair, and leaning
both his arms on the table looked at the letter lying there so white, so
still. He felt a preternatural consciousness of what was in it; and he
shrank from looking at the words, as a condemned prisoner might shrink
from reading his own death-warrant. The room was bitterly cold. Fires in
bed-rooms were a luxury Stephen had never known. As he sat there, his body
and heart seemed to be growing numb together. At last he said, "I may as
well read it," and took the letter up. As he opened it and read the first
words, "My darling Stephen," his heart gave a great bound. She loved him
still. What a reprieve in that! He had yet to learn that love can be
crueller than any friendship, than any indifference, than any hate:
nothing is so exacting, so inexorable, as love. The letter was full of
love; but it was, nevertheless, hard and pitiless in its tone. Stephen
read it ag