craved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! And
could she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, and
left them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against her
and cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he not
used her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the child
does the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He had
done all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out of
his clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge him
with his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could have
done this, but the woman's heart that throbbed in her bosom forbade it.
She was the loving woman still, though the fountain of her love had been
sealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any sudden
movement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while in
every limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, and
gathered his head softly to her bosom, whispering, "Poor, dear Orlando,
you are glad, are you not, to see me?" Then, as the huge rapid drops of
the thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst of
oppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and then
break into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from the
eyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daring
to place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck which
that same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, he
yet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, "It is
too much." Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, and
then sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in her
own.

No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to an
effort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily and
sorrowfully in the face. "Tell me, Julia," he said, "tell me the
truth,--tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me?--nay, do
not speak till you have heard me out,"--for she was about to give an
eager reply. "Consider well. You know what I have been to you,--the
brute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then, in view of all the past,
forgive me from your heart?"

"I can, I do, dear Orlando, from my very heart," she cried; "and surely
I too have much to be forgiven."

"Not by me," he said earnestly. "And now," he ad