him and her quietly to set aside? Did it not all
point to this? He was not only a perjurer toward Heaven, but his sin had
brought woe and pain to her he loved.

So he groaned in renewed self-condemnation. But what did that mean? And
then an irresistible tide of triumph swept over him, obliterating shame
and horror and remorse. She loved him. He had won. Be it good or evil,
she was his! Who forbade his joy? Though all the world, aye, and all
Heaven, were against him, nothing should stop him. Should he sin for
naught? Should he not have the price of his soul? Should he not enjoy
what he had bought so dearly? Enough of talking, and enough of
reasoning! Passion filled him, and he knew no good nor evil save its
satiety or hunger.

The mad mood passed, and there came a worthier mind. He sat and looked
along the avenue of his life. He saw himself walking hand in hand with
her. Now she was not the instrument of his pleasure, but the helper in
his good deeds. By her sweet influence he was stronger to do well; his
broader sympathies and fuller life made a servant more valuable to his
Master; he would serve Heaven as well and man better, and, knowing the
common joys of man, he would better minister to common pains. Who was he
that he should claim to lead a life apart, or arrogate to himself an
immunity and an independence other men had not? Man and woman created He
them, and did it not make for good? And he sank back in his chair, with
the picture of a life before him, blessed and giving blessings, and
ending at last in an old age, when she would still be with him, when he
should be the head and inspiration of a house wherein God's service was
done, when he should see his son's sons following in his steps, and so,
having borne his part, fall asleep, to wake again to an union wherein
were no stain of earth and no shadow of parting.

From these musings he awoke with a shudder, as there came back to him
many a memory of lofty pitying words, with which he had gently drawn
aside the cloak of seemliness wherein some sinner had sought to wrap
his sin. His dream of the perfect joint-life, what was it but a sham
tribute to decency, a threadbare garment for the hideousness of naked
passion? Had he taught himself to contemplate such a life, and shaped
himself for it, it might be a worthy life--not the highest, but good for
men who were not made for saints. But as it was, it seemed to him but a
glazing over of his crime. Sternly there stood