“Now attend to this, Julian. I am going to pass from my memory of what happened a week ago to my memory of what happened five minutes since. You were present; I want to know if you heard it too.” He paused, and, without taking his eyes off Julian, pointed backward to Mercy. “There is the lady who is engaged to marry me,” he resumed. “Did I, or did I not, hear her say that she had come out of a Refuge, and that she was going back to a Refuge? Did I, or did I not, hear her own to my face that her name was Mercy Merrick? Answer me, Julian. My good friend, answer me, for the sake of old times.” His voice faltered as he spoke those imploring words. Under the dull blank of his face there appeared the first signs of emotion slowly forcing its way outward. The stunned mind was reviving faintly. Julian saw his opportunity of aiding the recovery, and seized it. He took Horace gently by the arm, and pointed to Mercy. “There is your answer!” he said. “Look!--and pity her.” She had not once interrupted them while they had been speaking: she had changed her position again, and that was all. There was a writing-table at the side of her chair; her outstretched arms rested on it. Her head had dropped on her arms, and her face was hidden. Julian’s judgment had not misled him; the utter self-abandonment of her attitude answered Horace as no human language could have answered him. He looked at her. A quick spasm of pain passed across his face. He turned once more to the faithful friend who had forgiven him. His head fell on Julian’s shoulder, and he burst into tears. Mercy started wildly to her feet, and looked at the two men. “O God” she cried, “what have I done!” Julian quieted her by a motion of his hand. “You have helped me to save him,” he said. “Let his tears have their way. Wait.” He put one arm round Horace to support him. The manly tenderness of the action, the complete and noble pardon of past injuries which it implied, touched Mercy to the heart. She went back to her chair. Again shame and sorrow overpowered her, and again she hid her face from view. Julian led Horace to a seat, and silently waited by him until he had recovered his self-control. He gratefully took the kind hand that had sustained him: he said, simply, almost boyishly, “Thank you, Julian. I am better now.” “Are you composed enough to listen to what is said to you?” Julian asked. “Yes. Do _you_ wish to speak to me?” Julian left him without immediately replying, and returned to Mercy. “The time has come,” he said. “Tell him all--truly, unreservedly, as you would tell it to me.” She shuddered as he spoke. “Have I not told him enough?” she asked. “Do you want me to break his heart? Look at him! Look what I have done already!” Horace shrank from the ordeal as Mercy shrank from it. “No, no! I can’t listen to it! I daren’t listen to it!” he cried, and rose to leave the room.