O, how crushing it was! He was an outcast,--a vile, miserable wretch,--a hypocrite,--a mean, good-for-nothing fellow,--a scoundrel,--a thief,--a robber,--in the estimation of those who had respected him. They did not speak to him on the street. Colonel Dare, who usually had a pleasant word, did not notice him. He met Daphne Dare, but she crossed the street to avoid him. How terrible the days! How horrible the nights! He tossed and tumbled, and turned upon his bed. There was a fire in his bones. His flesh was hot. His brain was like a smouldering furnace. If he dropped off to sleep, it was but for a moment, and he awoke with a start, to feel the heat burning up his soul with its slow, consuming flame. At evening twilight he wandered by the river-side to cool his fever, dipping his hand into the stream and bathing his brow. He stood upon the bridge and looked over the railing into the surging waters. A horrible thought came over him. Why not jump in and let the swollen current bear him away? What use was it to live, with his good name gone, and all the future a blank? He banished the thought. He would live on and trust in God. He heard a step upon the bridge, and, looking up, beheld Azalia. She had been out gathering the faded leaves of autumn, and late-blossoming flowers, in the woods beyond the river. "Will she speak to me?" was the question which rose in his mind. His heart stood still in that moment of suspense. She came towards him, held out her hand, and said, "Good evening, Paul." "Then you do not turn away from me?" "No, Paul, I don't believe that you are a thief." Tears came to his eyes as he took her proffered hand,--tears which welled up from his heart and which saved it from bursting. "O Azalia, if you had turned from me, I should have died! I have suffered terrible agony, but I can live now. I am innocent." "I believe you, Paul, and I shall still be as I have been, your friend. There is my pledge," she said, setting down her basket, and putting a frost-flower into a button-hole of his threadbare coat. Then, to make him forget that the world was looking coldly upon him, she showed him the flowers she had gathered, and the gorgeous maple leaves,--scarlet, orange, purple, and crimson, and talked of their marvellous beauty. And when, with a smile, she said "Good night," and went tripping homeward, his heart was so full of gratitude that he could not utter his thanks. He could only say in his heart, "God bless her." It was as if he had met an angel in the way, and had been blessed. He stood there while the twilight deepened, and felt his heart grow strong again. He went home. His mother saw by the deep-settled determination on his face, by his calmness, and by his sad smile, that he was not utterly broken down and overwhelmed by the trouble which, like a wave of the sea, had rolled upon him. "There is one who does not pass me by; Azalia is still a friend," he said.