nry
does not hate me anny more after I am ded, ask him to berry a pore
girl whose hart beet for him only, and to forgif me, for I did
rong to meddle in what didn't consern me. Tak care of his wounds.
How much he sufered, pore fellow! I shall have as much corage to
kill myself as he had to burn his bak. Carry home the corsets I
have finished. And pray God for your daughter.

Ida.

"Take this letter to Monsieur de Funcal, who is upstairs," said Jules.
"He alone can save your daughter, if there is still time."

So saying he disappeared, running like a man who has committed a crime.
His legs trembled. The hot blood poured into his swelling heart in
torrents greater than at any other moment of his life, and left it again
with untold violence. Conflicting thoughts struggled in his mind, and
yet one thought predominated,--he had not been loyal to the being he
loved most. It was impossible for him to argue with his conscience,
whose voice, rising high with conviction, came like an echo of those
inward cries of his love during the cruel hours of doubt he had lately
lived through.

He spent the greater part of the day wandering about Paris, for he dared
not go home. This man of integrity and honor feared to meet the spotless
brow of the woman he had misjudged. We estimate wrongdoing in proportion
to the purity of our conscience; the deed which is scarcely a fault
in some hearts, takes the proportions of a crime in certain unsullied
souls. The slightest stain on the white garment of a virgin makes it a
thing ignoble as the rags of a mendicant. Between the two the difference
lies in the misfortune of the one, the wrong-doing of the other. God
never measures repentance; he never apportions it. As much is needed
to efface a spot as to obliterate the crimes of a lifetime. These
reflections fell with all their weight on Jules; passions, like human
laws, will not pardon, and their reasoning is more just; for are they
not based upon a conscience of their own as infallible as an instinct?

Jules finally came home pale, despondent, crushed beneath a sense of his
wrong-doing, and yet expressing in spite of himself the joy his wife's
innocence had given him. He entered her room all throbbing with emotion;
she was in bed with a high fever. He took her hand, kissed it, and
covered it with tears.

"Dear angel," he said, when they were alone, "it is repentance."

"And for what?" she answered.

As she made that reply, she