of the melancholy truth, that he who touches the weapons of Nemesis effectually slaughters his own peace of mind, and challenges her maledictions, from which there is no escape.  In my insanity I said, ‘Vengeance is mine!  I will repay!’ and in the hour when I daringly grasped the prerogative of God, His curse smote me!  Mr. Hammond, friend of my happy youth, guide of my innocent boyhood! if you could know all the depths of my abasement, you would pity me indeed!  My miserable heart is like the crater of some extinct volcano:  the flames of sin have burned out, and left it rugged, rent, blackened.  I do not think that—­”

“St. Elmo, do not upbraid yourself so bitterly—­”

“Sir, your words are kind and noble and full of Christian charity; they are well meant, and I thank you; but they cannot comfort me.  My desolation, my utter wretchedness isolate me from the sympathy of my race, whom I have despised and trampled so relentlessly.  Yesterday I read a passage which depicts so accurately my dreary isolation, that I have been unable to expel it; I find it creeping even now to my lips: 

“’O misery and mourning!  I have felt—­Yes, I have felt like some deserted world That God hath done with, and had cast aside To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, He never looking on it any more; Unfilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, Nor lighted on by angels in their flight From heaven to happier planets; and the race That once hath dwelt on it withdrawn or dead.  Could such a world have hope that some blest day God would remember her, and fashion her Anew?’”

“Yes, my dear St. Elmo, so surely as God reigns above us, He will refashion it, and make the light of His pardoning love and the refreshing dew of his grace fall upon it!  And the waste places shall bloom as Sharon, and the purpling vineyards shame Engedi, and the lilies of peace shall lift up their stately heads, and the ’voice of the turtle shall be heard in the land!’ Have faith, grapple yourself by prayer to the feet of God, and he will gird, and lift up, and guide you.”

Mr. Murray shook his head mournfully, and the moonlight shining on his face showed it colorless, haggard, hopeless.

The pastor rose, put on his hat, and took St. Elmo’s arm.

“Come home with me.  This spot is fraught with painful associations that open afresh all your wounds.”

They walked on together until they reached the parsonage gate, and as the minister raised the latch, his companion gently disengaged the arm clasped to the old man’s side.

“Not to-night.  After a few days I will try to come.”

“St. Elmo, to-morrow is Sunday, and—­”

He paused, and did not speak the request that looked out from his eyes.

It cost Mr. Murray a severe struggle, and he did not answer immediately.  When he spoke his voice was unsteady.