sible, even yet, to
completely forgot the past. She held out her hand.

He rose on his side--without looking at her.

"Before we part forever," she said to him, "will you take my hand as a
token that you forgive me?"

He hesitated. He half lifted his hand. The next moment the generous
impulse died away in him. In its place came the mean fear of what might
happen if he trusted himself to the dangerous fascination of her touch.
His hand dropped again at his side; he turned away quickly.

"I can't forgive her!" he said.

With that horrible confession--without even a last look at her--he left
the room.

At the moment when he opened the door Julian's contempt for him burst
its way through all restraints.

"Horace," he said, "I pity you!"

As the words escaped him he looked back at Mercy. She had turned aside
from both of them--she had retired to a distant part of the library The
first bitter foretaste of what was in store for her when she faced the
world again had come to her from Horace! The energy which had sustained
her thus far quailed before the dreadful prospect--doubly dreadful to
a woman--of obloquy and contempt. She sank on her knees before a little
couch in the darkest corner of the room. "O Christ, have mercy on me!"
That was her prayer--no more.

Julian followed her. He waited a little. Then his kind hand touched her;
his friendly voice fell consolingly on her ear.

"Rise, poor wounded heart! Beautiful, purified soul, God's angels
rejoice over you! Take your place among the noblest of God's creatures!"

He raised her as he spoke. All her heart went out to him. She caught
his hand--she pressed it to her bosom; she pressed it to her lips--then
dropped it suddenly, and stood before him trembling like a frightened
child.

"Forgive me!" was all she could say. "I was so lost and lonely--and you
are so good to me!"

She tried to leave him. It was useless--her strength was gone; she
caught at the head of the couch to support herself. He looked at her.
The confession of his love was just rising to his lips--he looked again,
and checked it. No, not at that moment; not when she was helpless and
ashamed; not when her weakness might make her yield, only to regret it
at a later time. The great heart which had spared her and felt for her
from the first spared her and felt for her now.

He, too, left her--but not without a word at parting.

"Don't think of your future life just yet," he said, gently. "I have