It had cost him almost as much to relieve the pressing necessities of this poor family as it had to furnish his own bare attic room, and both outlays had nearly exhausted the remains of the funds from the payment of that “old debt” which the “pious fraud” of Ruth Elde, assisted by her Joe, had invented. Poor Harcourt did not grudge the money, but he felt that he must find work at once, or have nothing to send to his mother, when, in the course of weeks, he should write to her. He went up to his attic, but as soon as he found himself alone there his temporary feelings of relief left him. While with Adler and his family he had really felt better, as he had said; but it was the surrounding and reflection of their happier feelings. Now, in the solitude of his attic, remorse and despair seized him again, much on account of his share in that tragedy at the Isle of Storms, but more, far more, for that which had come of it—his black, black treachery to Roma Fronde. The first might be expiated when he should give himself up to justice to suffer the penalty of his offense; but the last—the last! How should he ever atone for the irreparable wrong done to Roma? In the soul’s utter extremity to whom can it go but to its Father in heaven? Harcourt cast himself down prone upon the floor, and called upon the name of the Lord, not for pardon—he dared not—but for some means, through however much of suffering for himself, to atone for his sin to Roma. “I can do nothing! nothing!” he cried. “I have fallen hopelessly into the pit! But with Thee ‘all things are possible.’ Thou holdest in Thine almighty hands the springs of all life and all activity. Oh, make it so that I may be sacrificed, humiliated, destroyed, for her sake, so that she may be happy!” In his deep despair time passed unheeded. He lay face downward on the floor of his attic, sometimes giving vent to the anguish of his soul in deep groans, sometimes rolling over, but always falling into the same position, face to the floor. So the wretched night passed, and the morning dawned and found him there. In the midst of his misery he became conscious that some one was knocking at his door, and had been knocking for some few seconds. “Who is there?” he called at length, as he slowly rose from the floor. “It is I, your next neighbor. Are you ill? Can I do anything for you?” inquired a sweet voice from without. Will Harcourt instantly opened the door, and saw in the uncertain light of the dawn a woman standing there. But whether she was young or old, pretty or plain, he could not tell. “Oh! you are all in the dark,” she said. “Let me go and bring my candle.” And she was off like a shot, before Harcourt could speak to prevent her. But he went to his cupboard and lighted his own candle, so that when she came back with hers the darkness had fled.