There was a moment of silence between them. They both had need of silence. Julian was the first to speak again. “Have I satisfied you that her opportunity is still before her?” he asked. “Do you feel, as I feel, that she has _not_ done with hope?” “You have satisfied me that the world holds no truer friend to her than you,” Mercy answered, gently and gratefully. “She shall prove herself worthy of your generous confidence in her. She shall show you yet that you have not spoken in vain.” Still inevitably failing to understand her, he led the way to the door. “Don’t waste the precious time,” he said. “Don’t leave her cruelly to herself. If you can’t go to her, let me go as your messenger, in your place.” She stopped him by a gesture. He took a step back into the room, and paused, observing with surprise that she made no attempt to move from the chair that she occupied. “Stay here,” she said to him, in suddenly altered tones. “Pardon me,” he rejoined, “I don’t understand you.” “You will understand me directly. Give me a little time.” He still lingered near the door, with his eyes fixed inquiringly on her. A man of a lower nature than his, or a man believing in Mercy less devotedly than he believed, would now have felt his first suspicion of her. Julian was as far as ever from suspecting her, even yet. “Do you wish to be alone?” he asked, considerately. “Shall I leave you for a while and return again?” She looked up with a start of terror. “Leave me?” she repeated, and suddenly checked herself on the point of saying more. Nearly half the length of the room divided them from each other. The words which she was longing to say were words that would never pass her lips unless she could see some encouragement in his face. “No!” she cried out to him, on a sudden, in her sore need, “don’t leave me! Come back to me!”