"I had wronged her. Against her my sin was great and particular. I
came to her, and I told her what I have told you. She wept with me.
She forgave me freely. She made me tea with her own hands; she did
more than that--she ate and drank with me. It was as if Christ again
put His hand upon the leper, or went to be guest in the house of a man
that was a sinner. I shall never forget her goodness. I wanted you to
know----"

"What?"

"That there is mercy for sin--that there is joy and gladness in
repenting--that God is 'the lover of souls.'"

"It is a strange thing to hear you talk in this way to me."

"I talk to you now because I shall not accuse you at the Day of
Judgment. I have been forgiven, and I have forgiven you. But, oh! if
you remain unforgiven, will you accuse me then?"

"No; I only am to blame."

"Now I will go. It is not likely we shall meet again until the Day of
Judgment. At that Day, I shall be glad that I have spoken; and I hope
that you will be glad that you have listened."

Harry tried to answer, but he knew not what to say. His soul was in a
chaos of emotion. There seemed to be no words to interpret it; and
before he could find words, the woman was gone, and the door was shut,
and he was quite alone.

He did not wish to see Yanna just then; and she, being a wise wife,
probably divined this feeling, for she did not intrude herself or her
opinions on the event at that time. She knew what Hannah Young would
say to him, and she understood that such words need neither commentary
nor explanation. She was rather satisfied than otherwise, when she
heard Harry go out; and as she had promised to dine with Miss Alida,
she went there alone--there being already an understanding that Harry
should come for her at eleven o'clock.

So their next meeting was in a company who were discussing Browning
with an extraordinary animation. Miss Alida stopped in the middle of
her declaration "that she would rather have her teeth drawn than be
compelled to read _Sordello_," to smile a welcome; and Yanna's look of
pleasure drew him to her side; where he stood leaning on her chair and
watching Professor Snowdon, who was holding a book open at the
likeness of the poet.

"What a brave countenance!" he cried. "How honest, and thoughtful, and
kindly! And what a pleasant shrewdness in the eyes! It is a perfect
English face."

"Oh, indeed!" said a scholarly man who stood by Miss Alida; "if Browning
had an English body, his sou