No reproach, no antagonism, no entreaty.  With the long-trained patience of a lifetime, Stephen accepted this great grief, and made no effort to gainsay it.  Mercy tried again and again to speak, but no words came.  At last, with a flood of tears, she exclaimed,—­

“I cannot help it, Stephen,—­I cannot help it.”

“No, darling, you cannot help it; and it is not your fault,” replied Stephen.  Touched to the heart by his sweetness and forbearance, Mercy went nearer him, and took his hand, and in her old way was about to lay it to her cheek.

Stephen drew it hastily away, and a shudder ran over his body.  “No, Mercy, do not try to do that.  That is not right, when you do not trust me.  You cannot help loving the touch of my hand, Mercy,”—­and a certain sad pride lighted Stephen’s face at the thought of the clinging affection which even now stirred this woman’s veins for him,—­“any more than you can help having ceased to trust me.  If the trust ever comes back, then”—­Stephen turned his head away, and did not finish the sentence.  A great silence fell upon them both.  How inexplicable it seemed to them that there was nothing to say!  At last Stephen rose, and said gravely,—­

“Good-by, Mercy.  Unless there is something I can do to help you, I would rather not see you again.”

“No,” whispered Mercy.  “That is best.”

“And if the time ever comes, darling, when you need me, ... or trust me ... again, will you write to me and say so?”

“Yes,” sobbed Mercy, and Stephen left her.  On the threshold of the door, he turned and fixed his eyes upon her with one long look of sorrow, compassion, and infinite love.  Her heart thrilled under it.  She made an eager step forward.  If he had returned, she would have thrown herself into his arms, and cried out, “O Stephen, I do love you, I do trust you.”  But Stephen made an inexorable gesture of his hand, which said more than any words, “No! no! do not deceive yourself,” and was gone.

And thus they parted for ever, this man and this woman who had been for two years all in all to each other, who had written on each other’s hearts and lives characters which eternity itself could never efface.

Hope lived long in Stephen’s heart.  He built too much on the memories of his magnetic power over Mercy, and he judged her nature too much by his own.  He would have loved and followed her to the end, in spite of her having become a very outcast of crime, if she had continued to love him; and it was simply impossible for him to conceive of her love’s being either less or different.  But, when in a volume of poems which Mercy published one year after their parting, he read the following sonnet, he knew that all was indeed over:—­

  Died.