“Poor boy, you have misunderstood me; did you think,” she said, passing her hand over his troubled brow, smoothing away the golden ringlets, and looking kindly in his face, “did you think that I was going selfishly to expose and abandon your father? No, Raymond—no, poor boy—I am weak, and sometimes cowardly, but never cruel or selfish—I never wantonly destroyed the smallest insect, or wounded, purposely, the worst or the lowest human being; and since I have been sitting here, Raymond, I know not what sort of a strange strength has entered my soul! Yes, your arrival just now is providential, and with your words the spirit of God has descended upon me. The Lord has given me something to do for His sake, and endowed me with strength to do it. And you are my co-laborer, Raymond. To dress the wounds of this poor warrior, beaten and bruised, bleeding and fainting on the field of the battle of life; to raise and nurse him back to life and health—this is our work.” How beautiful she looked in her young devotion,—the moonlight fell upon her fair, pure brow, clothing it with an angelic radiance. “Oh, but the sacrifice, will you immolate yourself thus, Miss Churchill?” “Strange! but I do not feel it as such; I feel lifted up, elevated, strengthened, filled with light and a strange joy.” “Beautiful inspired one!” exclaimed the boy, with enthusiasm. “Come,” said Sophie, rising, “let us return to the house, I shall be missed; did your father expect you?” “He wrote that I might come if I pleased; but has he never mentioned me, Miss Churchill?” “Never.” “Why was that?” “Abstraction—forgetfulness—something.” “Come with me, then, I will present you to him.” “Oh, Miss Churchill—gentle Sophie—do you feel no inward resentment towards my unhappy father, for the marriage into which he has led you?” “None in the world. Is not his reason clouded, his thoughts all jarred and out of tune? No, I feel that he was led by, to him, a blind impulse, really by Providence, to the only one who could nurse him back to health of mind and body. Raymond, we can cure this sick heart, clear this clouded brain, restore this ruin. Come!” And they left the arbor, and took their way towards the house. During the interview, a revolution had taken place in Sophie’s soul; all her deep religious feeling, her latent passion for self-devotion, her enthusiasm, her benevolence, had been called forth. Thus softened by pity, and inspired by her own high ideal of duty, she determined to devote herself to the tranquility of his shrunken and tortured life, with one purpose—his restoration to mental and physical health. She passed from the arbor no joyous or reluctant bride, but a high-souled devotee, in possession of duty for which she must live. An hour before, she had seemed a trembling, shrinking, suffering victim, offered in _useless, objectless_ sacrifice; now, she was a cheerful, self-possessed human soul, who had solved the problem of her life, and held the answer in her hands.