"Poor little Mercy!" said Hugh.
He was now ashamed of his own sufferings. How loud they had clamored awhile ago; yet, what were they side by side with this poor girl's tangible sorrows! Mere things of the air, with no reality.
"But no matter!" she burst out. "That's no matter."
"You must keep up heart, Mercy. I spoke angrily to you the other night, but it's over now, is it not?"
"Oh, why didn't you leave me alone?" said the girl.
"Hush, Mercy; it will be well with you yet." His own eyes were growing dim, but even then his heart was bitter. Had he not said in his wrath that passion was the demon of the world? He might say it in his sorrow, too. The simple heart of this girl loved him, even as his own lustier soul loved Greta. He had wronged her. But that was only a tithe of the trouble. If she could but return him hate for wrong, how soon everything would be right with her! "What brought you here, Mercy?"
"One of the sisters—they visit the sick—one of them visited the house where they gave me lodgings, and I heard that they sometimes took homeless girls into the convent. And I thought I was homeless, now, and—and—"
"Poor little woman!"
"I came the night before last, but saw your brother Paul walking here in front. So I went away."
"Paul?"