Mr. Van Rensselaer had been looking over everything most carefully, and approving of it all. There was taste in every article in the room. The one oriental rug before the couch was a fine old piece, and the couch itself was covered with pretty, comfortable-looking pillows. There was a tall reading-lamp gracefully shaded over the chair where he sat, and there were books and magazines, and a few fine photographs. It all had a homelike look, as if the room was used and loved.
A frown of annoyance gathered on his brow when the bell rang. He had hoped there would be no other visitor. Perhaps he could get the girl to take him out in the kitchen, where they could talk uninterrupted. He would like to see that kitchen. But then perhaps this was the girl herself.
Mrs. Chapparelle opened the door, and some one stepped in from the shadow of the front porch. She glanced at him astonished.
“Why, Murray! Is it you?”
He looked so white and tired she felt sorry for him. But why should he come here after all these weeks? Had he then really been ill somewhere?
“Yes, Mrs. Chapparelle, it’s Murray. But I’m afraid you don’t want to see me.”
“You look so white! Have you been ill?” she evaded.
“No, Mrs. Chapparelle, I’ve only been a fool and a coward and—a murderer—” he added bitterly.
“Murray!” she spoke in a startled voice.
“Yes, I know that’s what you’ve been calling me, and coward too, and I deserve it all and more. But thank God, He stopped me and brought me back. I’m going down now to give myself up and confess. But I had to stop here first to tell you and ask you to forgive me. I don’t suppose you’ll find it easy, and perhaps you won’t give me that comfort. But I knew you were a Christian woman, and I thought perhaps—Well, anyway I wanted you to know that God has forgiven my sins, and I belong to Him now. I thought that might make some difference to you. You were good to me when I was a kid—!”