“And then you see, my Poldie,” Helen went on as calmly as she could, “they would come here and find us; and I don’t know what might come next.” “Yes, yes, Helen! Go, go directly. Leave me this instant,” he said, hurriedly, and took her by the shoulders, as if he would push her from the room, but went on talking. “It must be, I know; but when the light comes I shall go mad. Would to God I might, for the day is worse than the darkness; then I see my own black against the light. Now go, Helen. But you WILL come back to me as soon as ever you can? How shall I know when to begin to look for you? What o’clock is it? My watch has never been--since--. Ugh! the light will be here soon. Helen, I know now what hell is.--Ah! Yes.”--As he spoke he had been feeling in one of his pockets.--“I will not be taken alive.--Can you whistle, Helen?” “Yes, Poldie,” answered Helen, trembling. “Don’t you remember teaching me?” “Yes, yes.--Then, when you come near the house, whistle, and go on whistling, for if I hear a step without any whistling, I shall kill myself.” “What have you got there?” she asked in renewed terror, noticing that he kept his hand in the breast pocket of his coat. “Only the knife,” he answered calmly. “Give it to me,” she said, calmly too. He laughed, and the laugh was more terrible than any cry. “No; I’m not so green as that,” he said. “My knife is my only friend! Who is to take care of me when you are away? Ha! ha!” She saw that the comfort of the knife must not be denied him. Nor did she fear any visit that might drive him to its use--except indeed the police WERE to come upon him--and then--what better could he do? she thought. “Well, well, I will not plague you,” she said. “Lie down and I will cover you with my shawl, and you can fancy it my arms round you. I will come to you as soon as ever I can.” He obeyed. She spread her shawl over him and kissed him. “Thank you, Helen,” he said quietly. “Pray to God to deliver you, dear,” she said. “He can do that only by killing me,” he returned. “I will pray for that. But do you go, Helen. I will try to bear my misery for your sake.” He followed her from the room with eyes out of which looked the very demon of silent despair. I will not further attempt to set forth his feelings. The incredible, the impossible, had become a fact-AND HE WAS THE MAN. He who knows the relief of waking from a dream of crime to the jubilation of recovered innocence, to the sunlight that blots out the thing as untrue, may by help of that conceive the misery of a delicate nature suddenly filled with the clear assurance of horrible guilt. Such a misery no waking but one that annihilated the past could ever console. Yes, there is yet an awaking--if a man might but attain unto it--an awaking into a region whose very fields are full of the harmony sovereign to console, not merely for having suffered--that needs little consoling, but for having inflicted the deepest wrong.