“O, do not mock me with such words!” exclaimed Weldon. “I tell you, I may not—dare not hope. Teach me to exorcise the restless spirit of the dead, and then I may find peace. Night after night she comes to me in my dreams: waking, she is ever before me—her accusing eyes are fixed upon me. Years have elapsed since she died; oceans roll between her grave and me. I have knelt at the holiest shrines—I have dwelt in the lowest depths of vice—I have joined the giddy in pursuit of pleasure—the wise in toil for knowledge. I have hidden in the caverns of the earth, and stood upon her mountain tops. The palace and the hovel, alternately, have been my home. Men have fawned, and fair maidens smiled on me; but all in vain. Still—still her pale face haunts me. The holy hymn and the din of battle—the mad curse of the drunken revel—the silvery laugh of pleasure—the soothing words of woman—and the flattering homage of man have alike failed to silence the bitter, ringing reproach of conscience. Then, bid me not hope for the peace which for years I have vainly sought. Would you go to the fiends of hell, and picture heaven with all its joys to them, and say—‘see; all this might have been yours, though now it is lost forever?’ Would you stand upon the scaffold beside the condemned felon, and tell him that a bright heritage had been left him, and paint all the joys of life, saying—all these were his could he but live; and add, that there was no hope—he must die? It were as merciful as to tell me of that for which I would freely give up all that I possess; nay, even life itself to win—yet dare not hope for.” “Still,” replied Barton, “you need not despair. There is no guilt, however black, that God will not wipe away. I fear you have never yet sought in the proper manner for the peace which you desire?” “And do you think I might indeed find it?” asked Weldon, eagerly. “O, if you can but teach me how to drive this restless fiend, Remorse, from my heart, I will be forever grateful!—but you must first know what has been my crime. The blood of two innocent, unoffending women rests upon my head; and one of them was my betrothed wife. She loved me—yes, loved me deeply, madly; and I—I betrayed her. She died by her own hand, and her mother of a broken heart. Knowing this, do you still think I might hope for pardon?” “Your crime was a fearful one; but surely your deep repentance, your great suffering have, in a measure, expatiated your guilt. But permit me to arrange your pillows, and then I will read to you for a short time.” The pillows having been arranged, Barton produced a pocket Bible, and read such passages as he thought applicable to Weldon’s case; panning occasionally to comment upon them. This was continued as long as he thought Paul’s strength would permit, and then he arose and took his leave, advising the sick man to sleep if possible. Weldon thanked him for his kind visit, and begged him to return soon again, which Barton readily promised to do.