e seat next to Jean Merle's, and laid his
hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. Jean Merle started and lifted up
his head. It was too dark for them to see each other well; but Canon
Pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency.

"They are going to close the Abbey," he said; "and you've been here all
day, without food, my friend. Is there any special reason why you should
pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? I would be glad to
serve you if I can. Perhaps you are a stranger in London?"

"I have been seeking the guidance of God," answered Jean Merle, in a
bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice.

"That is good," replied Canon Pascal; "that is the best. But it is good
also at times to seek man's guidance. It is God, doubtless, who has sent
me to you. As His servant, I earnestly desire to serve you."

"If you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried Jean
Merle.

"Are you a Catholic?" asked Canon Pascal. "Is it a confessor you want?"

"I am not a Catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my
soul to confess. My burden would be lighter if any man would share it,
so far as to keep my secret."

"Does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired Canon Pascal;
"is there any great crime in it?"

"No; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and
crime; but not a crime like that."

"Then I will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it
may be," replied Canon Pascal. "But the vergers are waiting to close the
Abbey. Come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts."

Jean Merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary,
he staggered as he stood upon his feet. Canon Pascal drew his arm within
his own. This simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which
he had been long a stranger. To clasp another man's hand, to walk
arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was
in them. He was ready to go anywhere with Canon Pascal, almost as a
child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother.

They passed out of the Abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the
lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark November evening. The
low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of
sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to
their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. Jean Merle suffered
himself to be led without a question, like one in a