“I must go upstairs to get some money,” and Zachariah stole into his bedroom to take half a little hoard which was in a desk there. His wife, as Mrs. Carter had said, was asleep. He went to her bedside and looked at her. She was pale and worn. Lying there unconscious, all the defects which had separated him from her vanished. In sleep and death the divine element of which we are compounded reappears, and we cease to hate or criticise; we can only weep or pray. He looked and looked again. The hours of first love and courtship passed before him; he remembered what she was to him then, and he thought that perhaps the fault, after all, might have been on his side, and that he had perhaps not tried to understand her. He thought of her loneliness—taken away by him into a land of strangers—and now he was about to desert her; he thought, too, that she also was one of God’s children just as much as he was; perhaps more so. The tears filled his eyes, although he was a hard, strong man not used to tears, and something rose in his throat and almost choked him. He was about to embrace her; but he dared not disturb her. He knelt down at the foot of the bed, and in an agony besought his God to have mercy on him. “God have mercy on me! God have mercy on her!” That was all he could say—nothing else, although he had been used to praying habitually. His face was upon her feet, as she lay stretched out there, and he softly uncovered one of them, so gently that she could not perceive it. Spotlessly white it was, and once upon a time she was so attractive to him because she was so exquisitely scrupulous! He bent his lips over it, kissed it—she stirred, but did not wake; a great cry almost broke from him, but he stifled it and rose. There was a knock at the door, and he started. It was Mrs. Carter. “Come,” she said as he went out, “you have been here long enough. Poor dear man!—there, there—of course it’s hard to bear—poor dear man!”—and the good creature put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “I don’t know how it is,” she continued, wiping her eyes with her apron, “I can’t a-bear to see a man cry. It always upsets me. My husband ain’t done it above once or twice in his life, and, Lord, I’d sooner a cried myself all night long. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, good-bye; God bless you! It will all come right.” In another minute Zachariah was out of doors. It was dark, and getting late. The cold air revived him but he could not for some time come to any determination as to what he ought to do next. He was not well acquainted with the country round Manchester, and he could not decide to what point of the compass it would be safest to bend his steps. At last he remembered that at any rate he must escape from the town boundaries, and get a night’s lodging somewhere outside them. With the morning some light would possibly dawn upon him.