It was a strange sight, that statue standing there so silently, and that blind old man trying in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it was that stood there beside him. Raising himself at last in bed, and stretching out his arm, he touched a hand colder even than his own, for guilt and fear had chilled the blood of him who remained immovable, while the trembling fingers passed nervously over the face, through the hair, down the side, until they reached the left hand, from whose fore-finger a joint was gone. That missing joint, though we have made no mention of it heretofore, was well remembered by Hugo Warren, and it needed but this proof to tell him who was there. “William Huntington,” he hoarsely whispered, and falling back upon his pillow, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his face, for the presence of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the bitter memories of the past. “William Huntington,” he gasped, “why are you here on this night of all others, when my lost wife seems present with me, and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before my mind. Say, have you come to add the last drop in the brimming bucket?” There was a moment’s silence, and then, falling upon his knees, William Huntington made answer to the man he had so wronged. “I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek the forgiveness which I know I do not merit. Only say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren—let me once hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then do with me what you will. A life within a felon’s cell is preferable far, to the remorse which I have carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, will you not forgive me?” he continued, and the strong man’s voice was choked with tears. “Forgive you, William,” Mr. Warren replied, “I might perhaps forgive you, were my fortune all you wrested from me, but when I think of my lost Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed her, William Huntington—you killed my precious wife.” “Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, it is true, still I have made you some amends. I saved your daughter’s life, you know, else I had never dared to seek your face again,” said Mr. Huntington, interrupting him. “You saved Alice’s life?” the excited man rejoined, and the hand which had withdrawn itself beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again, feeling eagerly for the bowed head, on which it rested forgivingly, while he continued, “It was you, then who took her from the river, and laid her in my arms—you who saved me from a darker night than any I have ever known. Yes, William, because you did this good to me, you are forgiven, fully, freely forgiven—but why have you not told of it before? Where have you been, and did your family know aught of this?”