that would be more
to the purpose!"

Howard's face grew paler. I saw that, even in the darkness.

"It is not open to me, Victor, now," he said; "but it is still open to
you to forgive."

His voice had a grave significance in it. No words that he could have
chosen would have been better. The short, quiet sentence was like a
sword to divide my hatred, and penetrate to the better part of man. The
truth, the unerring force, the reflections of this life's chances and
decrees in those words went home. It was not open to him now to repair;
later, it might not be open to me to forgive. And later, when all these
present vivid feelings were swept away in the past, should I not wish I
had forgiven.

I stood silent, and the query went through me--What is forgiveness? Is
it to feel again as we have felt before the injury? This is impossible.
Do what I would that affection I had had for him could never re-awaken.
It was stamped out, obliterated, as a flower is ground into the dust
beneath one's heel.

Still the loathing and the hatred I had for him now would pass. Years
would cancel it all, and bring with them mere indifference towards him,
the thought of him and of his act. To say the words now, and let the
time to come slowly fill them with truth, was better, surely, than to
reiterate my hatred of him--hatred which years hence would seem almost
foolish to me myself.

"I can't think that my forgiveness can be of very serious import to
you," I said quietly. "However, it is yours."

"You will shake hands with me, then, won't you?" and he held out his
hand.

With an effort I stretched out mine and took his, and held it for a
second as in old times.

"Good-bye, Victor," he said, in rather a strained voice, "I shall never
cease to regret what I have done."

He hesitated, as if wondering if I should speak. I did not, and he
turned and went down the alley, and the darkness closed up after him. I
leant silent against the wall, hating myself for forgiving him and
letting him go, and yet knowing I would do the same again.

"One must forgive, one must forgive; otherwise one is no better than
brute," I thought mechanically. "Later I shall be glad,"--and similar
phrases by which Principle excuses itself to furious, disappointed
Nature.

After a time I grew calmer, and I went back to the hotel and up to my
room. It seemed emptier, blanker still, now that even the dead body of
the dog had gone. In the grate, and scattered over the