“Lilian, how do you do?” cried Tom, entering the room, and grasping the hand of my wife.
Poor Lilian! It was more than she could bear. She had no burden of guilt on her pure soul, but she bore mine as though it had been her own. She burst into tears, dropped into her chair, and covered her face with her hands. She sobbed like an infant.
“Come, Paley, don’t take it too hardly,” said the generous Tom, clapping me on the shoulder. “I received your letter, and of course I know all about it.”
“Tom, I’m the most miserable fellow in the world,” I said, venturing to look up at him.
“To be candid, Paley, I don’t wonder at it. You deserve it. But I rejoice to know that you have come to take a right view of your past conduct,” replied he, with the candor which always distinguished him.
“I deserve all the reproaches you can heap upon me. You need not spare me, Tom.”
“It is not for me to reproach you, Paley; and I will not. I know how much you must have suffered since you came to yourself.”
“You are pure-minded and innocent, Tom; and you can form no idea of it.”
“If you repent of your error, Paley—”
“I do repent, and I have asked my God to forgive me.”