Tom Drake dropped his face upon his hands to hide the humility and reverence he could not speak, and the tears he could not stay and was ashamed to show. Earle Wayne’s enemy was utterly routed at last; he had stormed a citadel by a method of warfare hitherto untried, and it lay in ruins at his feet. “I—I’m afraid I do not quite understand. You will not have me arrested or tried—I am to be a free man?” Tom Drake breathed, in low, suppressed tones. “No; if you are sentenced to drag out a weary term of years as a convict, you would become discouraged, and be ready for almost any desperate deed if you should live to return; and, Tom, I have come to believe that you would really like to lead a different life from what your past has been.” “I would, sir, I would; but I never should have thought of it but for you—but for that bullet. It was indeed, as you said, a ‘blessing in disguise,’” he said, weakly but earnestly. Earle smiled his rare, luminous smile, then said, gravely: “Then I will help you all I can; but you must do your share also; it cannot be done in a moment, and you must not get disheartened. It will be something like this wound of yours; sin, like the bullet, has entered deep—the disease lies deep, and only the most rigid and skilful handling, with patient endurance, will work the cure.” He did not preach him a long sermon on human depravity, original sin, and the wrath of God. This little warning was all he then gave, hoping by practical illustration to draw him by and by nearer to the Divine Master whose commands he was endeavoring to obey. “And you—you make no account of anything? You forgive all those three years—the harm to the girl? _How can you?_” and the man lifted his earnest, wondering eyes to the grand face at his side. “Yes, Tom, I can forgive it all,” Earle said; but his face grew pale and a trifle pained at the remembrance of all that those words called up; “and I shall feel that the experience was not in vain if _you_ do not disappoint my expectations. If you will faithfully and honestly strive to overcome whatever there is of evil within you, or whatever may tempt you in the future, I shall feel that your character reclaimed is the ‘good’ that has come out of my ‘sorrow.’ Tom, will you strive to make an honest man, God’s noblest work, of yourself? I want your promise.” “Sir, from the bottom of my heart I’d _like_ to be an honest man, but—I’m afraid I can’t stand it,” he said, huskily. “Can’t stand what, Tom?” Earle asked, with a look of perplexity and anxiety. Were the temptations and habits of the old life so strong that he could not relinquish or overcome them? “I feel as if a millstone had crushed me; I’m afraid I can’t stand it to face you day after day, with the memory of all I’ve done staring me in the face.” Earle’s face lighted—this was the best proof he had had of the man’s sincerity.