"I came through the streets to-night baffled in life,--a mean man
that might have been noble,--all the years wasted that had gone
before,--disappointed,--with nothing to hope for but time to work
humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder,
my soul on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone for every
selfish deed. I had no thought of happiness; God knows I had no
hope of it. I had wronged you most: I could not die with that
wrong unforgiven."
"Unforgiven, Stephen?" she sobbed; "I forgave it long ago."
He looked at her a moment, then by some effort choked down the
word he would have spoken, and went on with his bitter
confession.
"I came through the crowded town, a homeless, solitary man, on
the Christmas eve when love comes to every man. If ever 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.
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