"The third _party_, as you term him, John Lister, has been and is to me as a dear brother; but I grant that it would be cruel to expect you to speak as we are. I will, then, be your counsellor." "No," he exclaimed, holding out his hands imploringly, "you are my judge." "Heaven is your judge," she said solemnly; and as she spoke I saw a change come over John Lister's face. It was a mingling of awe, disappointment, and anger, for he read his sentence in her tones--"Heaven is your judge," she repeated, "but I will not keep you in suspense." He joined his hands as he turned his back to me, but I could not help seeing his imploring act in the glass. "John Lister, I have pleaded your cause ever since I received your first letter three months ago. You have asked my forgiveness for the past." "Yes, yes," he whispered, gazing at her as if hanging on her lips for his life. "And I forgive you--sincerely forgive you--as I pray Heaven to forgive the trespasses I have committed." "God bless you!" he whispered; "Miriam, you are an angel of goodness." "You ask me now to resume our old relations; to receive you as of old-- in other words, John Lister, to become your wife." "Yes, yes," he whispered hoarsely, as he bent before her, and in his eagerness now, he seemed to forget my presence, for he bent down upon one knee and took and kissed the hem of her dress. "Miriam, I have been a coward and a villain to you, but I repent--indeed I repent. For years I have been seeking to make atonement. Have mercy on me and save me, for it is in your power to make me a better man." She stood there, gazing sadly down upon him; and if ever woman wore a saint-like expression on this earth, it was Miriam Carr as she stood before me then. She, too, seemed to ignore my presence, and her voice was very sweet and low as she replied: "Take my forgiveness, John Lister, and with it my prayers shall be joined to yours that yours may be a better and a happier life." "And you will grant my prayer, Miriam? You will be my wife?" he whispered, as I sat back there with an intense feeling of misery, almost jealousy, coming over me. I felt a terrible sense of dread, too, for I could not believe in the sincerity of John Lister's repentance, and in imagination I saw the woman whom I loved and reverenced torn down from the pedestal whereon she stood in my heart, to become ordinary, weak, and poor. "You ask me to forget the past and to be your wife, John Lister," she said, and the tones of her sweet low voice thrilled me as she spoke, "I have heard you patiently, and I tell you now that had you been true to me, I would have been your patient, loving, faithful wife unto the end. I would have crushed down the strange yearnings that sought to grow within my heart, for I told myself that you loved me dearly, and that I would love you in return."