"Ah, my beautiful, you too have suffered!" he went on. "Let us be angels of mercy to each other, each helping the other to forget! My griefs I should count worthless if I might but erase yours." "I would I could say the same!" said Juliet, but only in her heart. "Whatever they may have been," he continued, "my highest ambition shall be to make you forget them. We will love like beings whose only eternity is the moment. Come with me, Juliet; we will go down into the last darkness together, loving each other--and then peace. At least there is no eternal hate in my poor, ice-cold religion, as there is in yours. I am not suffering alone, Juliet. All whom it is my work to relieve, are suffering from your unkindness. For a time I prided myself that I gave every one of them as full attention as before, but I can not keep it up. I am defeated. My brain seems deserting me. I mistake symptoms, forget cases, confound medicines, fall into incredible blunders. My hand trembles, my judgment wavers, my will is undecided. Juliet, you are ruining me." "He saved my life," said Juliet to herself, "and that it is which has brought him to this. He has a claim to me. I am his property. He found me a castaway on the shore of Death, and gave me _his_ life to live with. He must not suffer where I can prevent it."--She was on the point of yielding. The same moment she heard a step in the lane approaching the door. "If you love me, do go now, dear Mr. Faber," she said. "I will see you again. Do not urge me further to-night.--Ah, I wish! I wish!" she added, with a deep sigh, and ceased. The steps came up to the door. There came a knock at it. They heard Lisbeth go to open it. Faber rose. "Go into the drawing-room," said Juliet. "Lisbeth may be coming to fetch me; she must not see you here." He obeyed. Without a word he left the chamber, and went into the drawing-room. He had been hardly a moment there, when Wingfold entered. It was almost dark, but the doctor stood against the window, and the curate knew him. "Ah, Faber!" he said, "it is long since I saw you. But each has been about his work, I suppose, and there could not be a better reason." "Under different masters, then," returned Faber, a little out of temper. "I don't exactly think so. All good work is done under the same master." "Pooh! Pooh!" "Who is your master, then?" "My conscience. Who is yours?" "The Author of my conscience." "A legendary personage!" "One who is every day making my conscience harder upon me. Until I believed in Him, my conscience was dull and stupid--not half-awake, indeed." "Oh! I see You mean my conscience is dull and stupid."