Monica’s face had told a tale of its own when she had first appeared; and the whispered question on Beatrice’s lips: “Did he speak, Monica? Did he say anything?” elicited a reply that led to explanations on both sides, rendering further reserve needless; and Monica told her tale with the quiet calmness of one who has too lately passed through some great mental conflict to be easily disturbed again. But Beatrice, fiery, impetuous Beatrice, could not understand this calm. She was shaken by a tempest of excitement and wrath. “You forgave him, Monica? Ah! how could you? Randolph’s murderer!” “Yes, I forgave him.” “You should not! You should not! It was not—it could not be right! Monica, I cannot understand you. I think you are made of stone!” She said nothing; she smiled. That smile was only seen by Haddon. It thrilled him to his heart’s core. “How came you to be with him at all?” said Tom, almost sternly. “It was not your duty to be there. It was no fit place for you.” “I think my place is where there is sorrow and need and loneliness,” answered Monica, very gently. “He needed me—and I came to him.” “He sent for you?” “I think he did.” “But you said——” Monica lifted her hand; she rose to her feet, passing her hand across her brow. “You would not understand, dear. There are some things, Beatrice, that you are very slow to learn. You know something of the mysteries of life, but you do not understand anything of those deeper mysteries of death. I have forgiven a dying man, who prayed forgiveness with his latest breath—and you look at me with horror.” Beatrice gazed at Monica, but yet would not yield her point. “Mercy can be carried too far——” but she could not say more, for the look upon Monica’s face brought a sudden sense of choking that would have made her voice falter had she attempted to proceed. Her brother’s murmured words, therefore, were now distinctly heard. “Not in God’s sight, perhaps.” Monica turned to him with a swift gesture inexpressibly sweet. “Ah! you understand,” she said simply. “I am glad you have come just now, Haddon. I shall want help. Will you give it me?” “I will do anything for you, and esteem it an honour.” She looked at him steadily. “Even if it is for one who—for the one who lies upstairs now—dead?” Haddon bent his head. “Even for him—at your bidding.” “Thank you,” she said. “I will take you home now, Beatrice,” said Tom, curtly. “We are not wanted here.” Monica looked questioningly at him, as she gave him her hand, to see what this abruptness might signify. He returned her gaze with equal intensity. “I believe you are an angel, Monica,” he said, lifting her hand for a moment to his lips; “but there are moments when fallen mortals like ourselves feel the angelic presence a little overpowering.”