tured, but that, like that man in Holy Writ, who had buried his treasure in the lap of the earth, he had not made use of his life before, neither for his good, nor for the good of the world. . . . He was a cipher among men, and his life had no aims. He had paid for it dearly; had despaired, had suffered cruel losses, much unspeakable torment, and he had nothing from all that but a series of wearisome hours. He knew full well that he would not in the future be any better, that his bones would be lying in a forgotten grave. . . .
Now, if he could at least draw her out of this mire, and turn her pure eyes once more to the light into which she was now looking, there would then be in his life at least one proper tabula rasa. . . .
He told her he had an aunt,—a good woman, like a child, like an angel,—he had himself sinned so much against her that he was ashamed of himself,—and he intended
