and
disjointed way.

"Mercy," said Stephen, "I have been walking up and down waiting for you
ever since I came out; but a man whom I could not get away from stopped
me, and I had to stand still helpless and see you walk by the street, and
I was afraid I could not overtake you."

"Oh, was that it?" said Mercy, looking up timidly in his face. "I felt
sure you would be there this morning, because"--

"Because what?" said Stephen, gently.

"Because you said you would come sometimes, and I knew very well that that
need not have meant this particular morning nor any particular morning;
and that was what vexed me so, that I should have been silly and set my
heart on it. That was what made me cry, Mr. White, I was so vexed with
myself," stoutly asserted Mercy, beginning to feel braver and more like
herself.

Stephen looked her full in the face without speaking for a moment. Then,--

"May I call you Mercy?" he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"May I say to you exactly what I am thinking?"

"Yes," she replied again, a little more hesitatingly.

"Then, Mercy, this is what I want to say to you," said Stephen, earnestly.
"There is no reason why you and I should try to deceive each other or
ourselves. I care very, very much for you, and you care very much for me.
We have come very close to each other, and neither of our lives can ever
be the same again. What is in store for us in all this we cannot now see;
but it is certain we are very much to each other."

He spoke more and more slowly and earnestly; his eyes fixed on the distant
horizon instead of on Mercy's face. A deep sadness gradually gathered on
his countenance, and his last words were spoken more in the tone of one
who felt a new exaltation of suffering than of one who felt the new
ecstasy of a lover. Looking down into Mercy's face, with a tenderness
which made her very heart thrill, he said,--

"Tell me, Mercy, is it not so? Are we not very much to each other?"

The strange reticence of his tone, even more reticent than his words, had
affected Mercy inexplicably: it was as if a chill wind had suddenly blown
at noonday, and made her shiver in spite of full sunlight. Her tone was
almost as reticent and sad as his, as she said, without raising her
eyes,--

"I think it is true."

"Please look up at me, Mercy," said Stephen. "I want to feel sure that you
are not sorry I care so much for you."

"How could I be sorry?" exclaimed Mercy, lifting her eyes suddenly, an