hain't been for twenty year; but she sez I'm to stay
till she dies, an' I don't make no doubt I shall. It's Mister Stephen I
stay for, though, after all, more 'n 't is her. I don't believe the Lord
ever made such a man."

Mercy's cheeks would burn after such a talk as this; and she would lavish
upon Stephen every device of love and cheer which she could invent, to
atone to him by hours, if possible, for the misery of days.

But the hours were few and far between. Stephen's days were filled with
work, and his evenings were his mother's. Only after she slept did he have
freedom. Just as soon as it was safe for him to leave the house, he flew
to Mercy; but, oh, how meagre and pitiful did the few moments seem!

"Hardly long enough to realize that I am with you, my darling," he often
said.

"But then it is every day, Stephen,--think of that," Mercy would reply,
bent always on making all things easier instead of harder for him. Even
the concealment, which was at times well-nigh insupportable to her, she
never complained of now. She had accepted it. "And, after accepting it, I
have no right to reproach him with it: it would be base," she thought.

Nevertheless, it was slowly wearing away the very foundations of her
peace. The morning walks had long been given up. Mercy had been resolute
about this. When she found Stephen insisting upon going in by-ways and
lanes, lest some one should see them who might mention it to his mother,
when he told her that she must not speak of it to her own mother, she said
firmly,--

"This must end, Stephen. How hard it is to me to give it up you know very
well. It is like the sunrise to my day, always, these moments with you.
But I will not multiply concealments. It makes me guilty and ashamed all
the time. Don't urge me to any such thing; for I am not sure that too much
of it would not kill my love for you. Let us be patient. Chance will do a
good deal for us; but I will not plan to meet clandestinely. Whenever you
can come to our house, that is different. It distresses me to have you do
that and never tell of it; but that is yours and not mine, if any thing
can be yours and not mine," she added sadly. Stephen had not heard the
last words.

"Kill your love for me, Mercy!" he exclaimed. "Are you really afraid of
that?"

"No, not kill my love for you," replied Mercy, "I think nothing could do
that, but kill all my joy in my love for you; and that would be as
terrible to you as if the love