“I’ve had so much to think of lately,” murmured he, partly to himself, partly by way of excusing his forgetfulness, passing his hand over his forehead.

“Yes, indeed!” returned the latter, in a tone of tender sympathy, that vibrated gratefully along Bressant’s nerves.  “But we know each other, and we are friends—­that is enough.”

“How strange that I should meet you here, and at such a time!” said Bressant, musingly.  And he wondered at himself for feeling glad, instead of sorry, that the encounter should have taken place.  But the boy looked up in surprise.

“Strange?  No!  I’m sure it’s the most natural thing in the world.  How could it have happened otherwise?  Should I have been your friend if I had failed you now?”

“But do you know every thing?” Bressant demanded—­less, however, because he doubted that it should be so than as wishing to receive full assurance thereof.  “Do you know all that has happened during these last six months, and yet are willing to be with me and speak to me?”

“It has been a terrible time, to be sure,” said the boy, sadly; “you should have kept your promise and come to me at your first trouble.  It might have saved you from a great deal.  And yet I can see how, in the end, it may all be for the best.”

Bressant shook his head dejectedly.  “I’ve lost what I never can regain!” said he, “and there are three stains—­falsehood, dishonor, and treachery—­that never can be washed out.”

“Don’t say that!” exclaimed the boy, earnestly and hopefully.  “God teaches us, you know, not to be in despair, because without hope—­hope of becoming better—­we can’t be really repentant.”

“I’m not repentant, certainly—­I have no hope,” rejoined Bressant.  But, even as he spoke the words, he was conscious of that within him which contradicted them.  Either the influence of the boy’s gentle and trustful spirit, or a new opening of his own inward eyes, had borne in upon him a vision of hitherto unconsidered possibilities.

The boy seemed to read his thoughts.  “You do not believe all you say,” observed he.  “Remember, it was because you repented of your dishonest purposes toward Abbie, and felt that you had wronged your better self with Cornelia, that you first resolved to give up Sophie, as being no longer worthy of her, and that proved that your love for her at least was noble and unselfish.”

“But afterward—­afterward I became worse than ever!” exclaimed Bressant, who would not dare to entertain a hope until the full depth of his sin had been brought forward for the pure and clear-sighted eyes of his companion to look upon and judge.  “When I found out my shameful secret—­when I learned what a thing I was, even with no sin of my own to drag me down—­I didn’t care what crime I committed!  A kind of evil intelligence seemed to come to me.  I saw that Cornelia loved me, and that I had her in my power, so I went back to get her, to take her with me to Europe.  There was no repentance in that!”