Never was a story told to a more attentive and appreciative auditor.  There must have been some buried sorrow in that heart which had rendered it sensitive to the griefs of others.  Hours were consumed by this narrative and by the questions which had to be asked and answered, and it was long after midnight when David found time to say, “And now shall I tell you my plans for the future?”

“Yes, if you will,” said Mantel.

“Well, I have rented a sunny room in a lodging house in a quiet street, and to-morrow, if you are willing, you shall go and lead him to it.  I must lean upon you, Mantel; I dare not make myself known to him.  He would never accept my aid if he knew by whom it was bestowed, for he is proud and revengeful and would give himself no rest night or day until he had my life, if he knew I was within reach.  I do not fear him; but what good could come of his wreaking vengeance on me, richly as I deserve it?  It would only make his destiny more dark and dreadful, and defeat the one chance I have of making an atonement.  You do not think I ought to make myself known, do you?”

“I do not.  I think with you that an atonement is the most perfect satisfaction of justice.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear friend.  You do not know how glad I am to have you think I am doing right.  You will go to him to-morrow, then, and you will tell him that some one who has seen him on the streets has taken compassion on him.  You will do this, will you not?”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure.  I half feel as if I had participated with you in the wrong done to the old man, and that I shall be blessed with you in trying to make it right.”

“That is good in you, Mantel.  How much nobility lies buried in every human heart!  It may be that even such men as you and I are capable of some sort of rescue and redemption.  I am going to spend my best strength in working for this poor old blind beggar whom I have wronged.  I mean to toil for him like a galley slave, and mark me, Mantel, it is going to be honest toil!”

“Honest, did you say?” asked Mantel, lifting his eyebrows incredulously.

“Yes,” David answered, “honest.  This hope that has come to me has wrought a great change in my heart.  It has revived old feelings which I thought long dead.  If there is a God in heaven who has decided to give me one more chance to set myself right, I am going to take it!  And listen; if this great hope can come to me, why not to you?”

Mantel leaned his head on his hand a moment, and then answered with a sigh, “Perhaps—­but,” and paused.

There are moments when these two indefinite words contain the whole of our philosophy of existence.  “I am going to seek the great Perhaps!” said Rabelais, as he breathed his last.

David looked at him sympathetically and said, “Well, it is not strange that you cannot feel as I do.  It is not by what befalls others, but by what befalls ourselves, that we learn to hope and trust.”