After an interval of rest Mercy was aroused by the shutting of aglass door at the far end of the conservatory. This door, leadinginto the garden, was used only by the inmates of the house, or byold friends privileged to enter the reception-rooms by that way.Assuming that either Horace or Lady Janet was returning to thedining-room, Mercy raised herself a little on the' sofa andlistened.

The voice of one of the men-servants caught her ear. It wasanswered by another voice, which instantly set her trembling inevery limb.

She started up, and listened again in speechless terror. Yes!there was no mistaking it. The voice that was answering theservant was the unforgotten voice which she had heard at theRefuge. The visitor who had come in by the glass door was--JulianGray!

His rapid footsteps advanced nearer and nearer to thedining-room. She recovered herself sufficiently to hurry to thelibrary door. Her hand shook so that she failed at first to openit. She had just succeeded when she heard him again--speaking toher.

"Pray don't run away! I am nothing very formidable. Only LadyJanet's nephew--Julian Gray."

She turned slowly, spell-bound by his voice, and confronted himin silence.

He was standing, hat in hand, at the entrance to theconservatory, dressed in black, and wearing a white cravat, butwith a studious avoidance of anything specially clerical in themake and form of his clothes. Young as he was, there were marksof care already on his face, and the hair was prematurely thinand scanty over his forehead. His slight, active figure was of nomore than the middle height. His complexion was pale. The lowerpart of his face, without beard or whiskers, was in no wayremarkable. An average observer would have passed him by withoutnotice but for his eyes. These alone made a marked man of him.The unusual size of the orbits in which they were set was enoughof itself to attract attention; it gave a grandeur to his head,which the head, broad and firm as it was, did not possess. As tothe eyes themselves, the soft, lustrous brightness of them defiedanalysis No two people could agree about their color; dividedopinion declaring alternately that they were dark gray or black.Painters had tried to reproduce them, and had given up theeffort, in despair of seizing any one expression in thebewildering variety of expressions which they presented to view.They were eyes that could charm at one moment and terrify atanother; eyes that could set people laughing or crying almost atwill. In action and in repose they were irresistible alike. Whenthey first descried Mercy running to the door, they brightenedgayly with the merriment of a child. When she turned and facedhim, they changed instantly, softening and glowing as they mutelyowned the interest and the admiration which the first sight ofher had roused in him. His tone and manner altered at the sametime. He addressed her with the deepest respect when he spoke hisnext words.

"Let me entreat you to favor me by resuming your seat," he said."And let me ask your pardon if I have thoughtlessly intruded onyou."

He paused, waiting for her reply before he advanced into theroom. Still spell-bound by his voice, she recovered self-controlenough to bow to him and to resume her place on the sofa. It wasimpossible to leave him now. After looking at her for a moment,he entered the room without speaking to her again. She wasbeginning to perplex as well as to interest him. "No commonsorrow," he thought, "has set its mark on that woman's face; nocommon heart beats in that woman's breast. Who can she be?"

Mercy rallied her courage, and forced herself to speak to him.

"Lady Janet is in the library, I believe," she said, timidly."Shall I tell her you are here?"

"Don't disturb Lady Janet, and don't disturb yourself." With thatanswer he approached the luncheon-table, delicately giving hertime to feel more at her ease. He took up what Horace had left ofthe bottle of claret, and poured it into a glass. "My aunt'sclaret shall represent my aunt for the present," he said,smiling, as he turned toward her once more. "I have had a longwalk, and I may venture to help myself in this house withoutinvitation. Is it useless to offer you anything?"

Mercy made the necessary reply. She was beginning already, afterher remarkable experience of him, to wonder at his easy mannersand his light way of talking.

He emptied his glass with the air of a man who thoroughlyunderstood and enjoyed good wine. "My aunt's claret is worthy ofmy aunt," he said, with comic gravity, as he set down the glass."Both are the genuine products of Nature." He seated himself atthe table and looked critically at the different dishes left onit. One dish especially attracted his attention. "What is this?"he went on. "A French pie! It seems grossly unfair to tasteFrench wine and to pass over French pie without notice." He tookup a knife and fork, and enjoyed the pie as critically as he hadenjoyed the wine. "Worthy of the Great Nation!" he exclaimed,with enthusiasm. "_Vive la France!_"

Mercy listened and looked, in inexpressible astonishment. He wasutterly unlike the picture which her fancy had drawn of him ineveryday life. Take off his white cravat, and nobody would havediscovered that this famous preacher was a clergyman!

He helped himself to another plateful of the pie, and spoke moredirectly to Mercy, alternately eating and talking as composedlyand pleasantly as if they had known each other for years.

"I came here by way of Kensington Gardens," he said. "For sometime past I have been living in a flat, ugly, barren,agricultural district. You can't think how pleasant I found thepicture presented by the Gardens, as a contrast. The ladies intheir rich winter dresses, the smart nursery maids, the lovelychildren, the ever moving crowd skating on the ice of the RoundPond; it was all so exhilarating after what I have been used to,that I actually caught myself whistling as I walked through thebrilliant scene! (In my time boys used always to whistle whenthey were in good spirits, and I have not got over the habityet.) Who do you think I met when I was in full song?"

As well as her amazement would let her, Mercy excused herselffrom guessing. She had never in all her life before spoken to anyliving being so confusedly and so unintelligently as she nowspoke to Julian Gray!

He went on more gayly than ever, without appearing to notice theeffect that he had produced on her.

"Whom did I meet," he repeated, "when I was in full song? Mybishop! If I had been whistling a sacred melody, his lordshipmight perhaps have excused my vulgarity out of consideration formy music. Unfortunately, the composition I was executing at themoment (I am one of the loudest of living whistlers) was byVerdi--" La Donna e Mobile"--familiar, no doubt, to his lordshipon the street organs. He recognized the tune, poor man, and whenI took off my hat to him he looked the other way. Strange, in aworld that is bursting with sin and sorrow, to treat such atrifle seriously as a cheerful clergyman whistling a tune!" Hepushed away his plate as he said the last words, and went onsimply and earnestly in an altered tone. "I have never beenable," he said, "to see why we should assert ourselves amongother men as belonging to a particular caste, and as beingforbidden, in any harmless thing, to do as other people do. Thedisciples of old set us no such example; they were wiser andbetter than we are. I venture to say that one of the worstobstacles in the way of our doing good among our fellow-creaturesis raised by the mere assumption of the clerical manner and theclerical voice. For my part, I set up no claim to be more sacredand more reverend than any other Christian man who does what goodhe can." He glanced brightly at Mercy, looking at him in helplessperplexity. The spirit of fun took possession of him again. "Areyou a Radical?" he asked, with a humorous twinkle in his largelustrous eyes. "I am!"

Mercy tried hard to understand him, and tried in vain. Could thisbe the preacher whose words had charmed, purified, ennobled her?Was this the man whose sermon had drawn tears from women abouther whom she knew to be shameless and hardened in crime? Yes! Theeyes that now rested on her humorously were the beautiful eyeswhich had once looked into her soul. The voice that had justaddressed a jesting question to her was the deep and mellow voicewhich had once thrilled her to the heart. In the pulpit he was anangel of mercy; out of the pulpit he was a boy let loose fromschool.

"Don't let me startle you," he said, good-naturedly, noticing herconfusion. "Public opinion has called me by harder names than thename of 'Radical.' I have been spending my time lately--as I toldyou just now--in an agricultural district. My business there wasto perform the duty for the rector of the place, who wanted aholiday. How do you think the experiment has ended? The Squire ofthe parish calls me a Communist; the farmers denounce me as anIncendiary; my friend the rector has been recalled in a hurry,and I have now the honor of speaking to you in the character of abanished man who has made a respectable neighborhood too hot tohold him."

With that frank avowal he left the luncheon table, and took achair near Mercy.

"You will naturally be anxious," he went on, "to know what myoffense was. Do you understand Political Economy and the Laws ofSupply and Demand?"

Mercy owned that she did _not_ understand them.

"No more do I--in a Christian country," he said. "That was myoffense. You shall hear my confession (just as my aunt will hearit) in two words." He paused for a little while; his variablemanner changed again. Mercy, shyly looking at him, saw a newexpression in his eyes--an expression which recalled her firstremembrance of him as nothing had recalled it yet. "I had noidea," he resumed, "of what the life of a farm-laborer reallywas, in some parts of England, until I undertook the rector'sduties. Never before had I seen such dire wretchedness as I sawin the cottages. Never before had I met with such noble patienceunder suffering as I found among the people. The martyrs of oldcould endure, and die. I asked myself if they could endure, and_live_, like the martyrs whom I saw round me?--live, week afterweek, month after month, year after year, on the brink ofstarvation; live, and see their pining children growing up roundthem, to work and want in their turn; live, with the poor man'sparish prison to look to as the end, when hunger and labor havedone their worst! Was God's beautiful earth made to hold suchmisery as this? I can hardly think of it, I can hardly speak ofit, even now, with dry eyes!"

His head sank on his breast. He waited--mastering his emotionbefore he spoke again. Now, at last, she knew him once more. Nowhe was the man, indeed, whom she had expected to see.Unconsciously she sat listening, with her eyes fixed on his face,with his heart hanging on his words, in the very attitude of theby-gone day when she had heard him for the first time!

"I did all I could to plead for the helpless ones," he resumed."I went round among the holders of the land to say a word for thetillers of the land. 'These patient people don't want much' (Isaid); 'in the name of Christ, give them enough to live on!'Political Economy shrieked at the horrid proposal; the Laws ofSupply and Demand veiled their majestic faces in dismay.Starvation wages were the right wages, I was told. And why?Because the laborer was obliged to accept them! I determined, sofar as one man could do it, that the laborer should _not_ beobliged to accept them. I collected my own resources--I wrote tomy friends--and I removed some of the poor fellows to parts ofEngland where their work was better paid. Such was the conductwhich made the neighborhood too hot to hold me. So let it be! Imean to go on. I am known in London; I can raise subscriptions.The vile Laws of Supply and Demand shall find labor scarce inthat agricultural district; and pitiless Political Economy shallspend a few extra shillings on the poor, as certainly as I amthat Radical, Communist, and Incendiary--Julian Gray!"

He rose--making a li ttle gesture of apology for the warmth withwhich he had spoken--and took a turn in the room. Fired by _his_enthusiasm, Mercy followed him. Her purse was in her hand, whenhe turned and faced her.

"Pray let me offer my little tribute--such as it is!" she said,eagerly.

A momentary flush spread over his pale cheeks as he looked at thebeautiful compassionate face pleading with him.

"No! no!" he said, smiling; "though I am a parson, I don't carrythe begging-box everywhere." Mercy attempted to press the purseon him. The quaint humor began to twinkle again in his eyes as heabruptly drew back from it. "Don't tempt me!" he said. "Thefrailest of all human creatures is a clergyman tempted by asubscription." Mercy persisted, and conquered; she made him provethe truth of his own profound observation of clerical humannature by taking a piece of money from the purse. "If I must takeit--I must!" he remarked. "Thank you for setting the goodexample! thank you for giving the timely help! What name shall Iput down on my list?"

Mercy's eyes looked confusedly away from him. "No name," shesaid, in a low voice. "My subscription is anonymous."

As she replied, the library door opened. To her infiniterelief--to Julian's secret disappointment--Lady Janet Roy andHorace Holmcroft entered the room together.

"Julian!" exclaimed Lady Janet, holding up her hands inastonishment.

He kissed his aunt on the cheek. "Your ladyship is lookingcharmingly." He gave his hand to Horace. Horace took it, andpassed on to Mercy. They walked away together slowly to the otherend of the room. Julian seized on the chance which left him freeto speak privately to his aunt.

"I came in through the conservatory," he said. "And I found thatyoung lady in the room. Who is she?"

"Are you very much interested in her?" asked Lady Janet, in hergravely ironical way.

Julian answered in one expressive word. "Indescribably!"

Lady Janet called to Mercy to join her.

"My dear," she said, "let me formally present my nephew to you.Julian, this is Miss Grace Roseberry--" She suddenly checkedherself. The instant she pronounced the name, Julian started asif it was a surprise to him. "What is it?" she asked, sharply.

"Nothing," he answered, bowing to Mercy, with a marked absence ofhis former ease of manner. She returned the courtesy a littlerestrainedly on her side. She, too, had seen him start when LadyJanet mentioned the name by which she was known. The start meantsomething. What could it be? Why did he turn aside, after bowingto her, and address himself to Horace, with an absent look in hisface, as if his thoughts were far away from his words? A completechange had come over him; and it dated from the moment when hisaunt had pronounced the name that was not _her_ name---the namethat she had stolen!

Lady Janet claimed Julian's attention, and left Horace free toreturn to Mercy. "Your room is ready for you," she said. "Youwill stay here, of course?" Julian accepted theinvitation---still with the air of a man whose mind waspreoccupied. Instead of looking at his aunt when he made hisreply, he looked round at Mercy with a troubled curiosity in hisface, very strange to see. Lady Janet tapped him impatiently onthe shoulder. "I expect people to look at me when people speak tome," she said. "What are you staring at my adopted daughter for?"

"Your adopted daughter?" Julian repeated--looking at his auntthis time, and looking very earnestly.

"Certainly! As Colonel Roseberry's daughter, she is connectedwith me by marriage already. Did you think I had picked up afoundling?"

Julian's face cleared; he looked relieved. "I had forgotten theColonel," he answered. "Of course the young lady is related tous, as you say."

"Charmed, I am sure, to have satisfied you that Grace is not animpostor," said Lady Janet, with satirical humility. She tookJulian's arm and drew him out of hearing of Horace and Mercy."About that letter of yours?" she proceeded. "There is one linein it that rouses my curiosity. Who is the mysterious 'lady' whomyou wish to present to me?"

Julian started, and changed color.

"I can't tell you now," he said, in a whisper.

"Why not?"

To Lady Janet's unutterable astonishment, instead of replying,Julian looked round at her adopted daughter once more.

"What has _she_ got to do with it?" asked the old lady, out ofall patience with him.

"It is impossible for me to tell you," he answered, gravely,"while Miss Roseberry is in the room."