I had grown sick
for a word or touch from the one soul to whom alone mine was open, I
thirsted for it then. The better part of my nature was crushed out,
and flung away with you, Margret. I cried for it,--I wanted help to be
a better, purer man. I need it now. And so," he said, with a smile
that hurt her more than tears, "I came to my good angel, to tell her I
had sinned and repented, that I had made humble plans for the future,
and ask her---- God knows what I would have asked her then! She had
forgotten me,--she had another work to do!"

She wrung her hands with a helpless cry. Holmes went to the window:
the dull waste of snow looked to him as hopeless and vague as his own
life.

"I have deserved it," he muttered to himself. "It is too late to amend."

Some light touch thrilled his arm.

"Is it too late, Stephen?" whispered a childish voice.

The strong man trembled, looking at the little dark figure standing
near him.

"We were both wrong: I have been untrue, selfish. More than you.
Stephen, help me to be a better girl; let us be friends again."

She went back unconsciously to the old words of their quarrels long
ago. He drew back.

"Do not mock me," he gasped. "I suffer, Margret. Do not mock me with
more courtesy."

"I do not; let us be friends again."

She was crying like a penitent child; her face was turned away; love,
pure and deep, was in her eyes.

The red fire-light grew stronger; the clock hushed its noisy ticking to
hear the story. Holmes's pale lip worked: what was this coming to him?
His breast heaved, a dry heat panted in his veins, his deep eyes
flashed fire.

"If my little friend comes to me," he said, in a smothered voice,
"there is but one place for her,--her soul with my soul, her heart on
my heart."--He opened his arms.--"She must rest her head here. My
little friend must be--my wife."

She looked into the strong, haggard face,--a smile crept out on her
own, arch and debonair like that of old time.

"I am tired, Stephen," she whispered, and softly laid her head down on
his breast.

The red fire-light flashed into a glory of crimson through the room,
about the two figures standing motionless there,--shimmered down into
awe-struck shadow: who heeded it? The old clock ticked away furiously,
as if rejoicing that weary days were over for the pet and darling of
the house: nothing else broke the silence. Without, the deep night
paused, gray, impenetrable. Did it hope tha