ember--the old time?"

What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it,
looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes.

"Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us then,
little one,--before you and me? Do you remember the Christmas before I
went away? I had a strong arm and a hungry brain to go out into the
world with, then. Something better, too, I had. A purer self than was
born with me came late in life, and nestled in my heart. Margret,
there was no fresh loving thought in my brain for God or man that did
not grow from my love of you; there was nothing noble or kindly in my
nature that did not flow into that love, and deepen there. I was your
master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held your
love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is too
late."--He wiped the cold drops from his face.--"Now do you know
whether it is remorse I feel, when I think how I put this purer self
away,--how I went out triumphant in my inhuman, greedy brain,--how I
resolved to know, to be, to trample under foot all weak love or homely
pleasures? I have been punished. Let those years go. I think,
sometimes, I came near to the nature of the damned who dare not love: I
would not. It was then I hurt you, Margret,--to the death: your true
life lay in me, as mine in you."

He had gone on drearily, as though holding colloquy with himself, as
though great years of meaning surged up and filled the broken words.
It may have been thus with the girl, for her face deepened as she
listened. For the first time for many long days tears welled up into
her eyes, and rolled between her fingers unheeded.

"I came through the streets to-night baffled in life,--a mean man that
might have been noble,--all the years wasted that had gone
before,--disappointed,--with nothing to hope for but time to work
humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder, my soul
on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone for every selfish deed.
I had no thought of happiness; God knows I had no hope of it. I had
wronged you most: I could not die with that wrong unforgiven."

"Unforgiven, Stephen?" she sobbed; "I forgave it long ago."

He looked at her a moment, then by some effort choked down the word he
would have spoken, and went on with his bitter confession.

"I came through the crowded town, a homeless, solitary man, on the
Christmas eve when love comes to every man. If ever