“Paula, I would be unworthy the name of a man, if with the consciousness of possessing a dark and evil nature, I strove by use of any hypocrisy or specious pretense at goodness, to lure to my side one so exceptionally pure, beautiful and high-minded. The ravening wolf and the innocent lamb would be nothing to it. Neither would I for an instant be esteemed worthy of your regard, if in this hour of my wooing there remained in my life the shadow of any latent wrong that might hereafter rise up and overwhelm you. Whatever of wrong has ever been committed by me—and it is my punishment that I must acknowledge before your pure eyes that my soul is not spotless—was done in the past, and is known only to my own heart and the God who I reverently trust has long ago pardoned me. The shadow is that of remorse, not of fear, and the evil, one against my own soul, rather than against the life or fortunes of other men. Paula, such sins can be forgiven if one has a mind to comprehend the temptations that beset men in their early struggles. I have never forgiven myself, but—” He paused, looked at her for an instant, his hand clenched over his heart, his whole noble form shaken by struggle, then said—“forgiveness implies no promise, Paula; you shall never link yourself to a man who has been obliged to bow his head in shame before you, but by the mercy that informs that dear glance and trembling lip, do you think you can ever grow to forgive me?” “Oh,” she cried, with a burst of sobs, violent as her grief and shame, “God be merciful to me, as I am merciful to those who repent of their sins and do good and not evil all the remaining days of their life.” “I thought you would _forgive_ me,” murmured he, looking down upon her, as the miser eyes the gold that has slipped from his paralyzed hand. “Him whom the hard-hearted sinner and the hypocrite despise, God’s dearest lambs regard with mercy. I learned to revere God before I knew you, Paula, but I learned to love Him in the light of your gentleness and your trust. Rise up now and let me wipe away your tears—my daughter.” She sprang up as if stung. “No, no,” she cried, “not that; I cannot bear that yet. I must think, I must know what all this means,” and she laid her hand upon her heart. “God surely does not give so much love for one’s undoing; if I were not destined to comfort a life so saddened, He would have bequeathed me more pity and less—” The lifted head fell, the word she would have uttered, stirred her bosom, but not her lips. It was a trial to his strength, but his firm man’s heart did not waver. “You do comfort me,” said he; “from early morning to late night your presence is my healing and my help, and will always be so, whatever may befal. A daughter can do much, my Paula.” She took a step back towards the door, her eyes, dark with unfathomable impulses, flashing on him through the tears that hung thickly on her lashes. “Is it for your own sake or for mine, that you make use of that word?” said she.