He paused once more. This time Crayford spoke.

"Richard!" he said, "since we first met, I have believed in your
better nature, against all outward appearance. I have believed in
you, firmly, truly, as your brother might. You are putting that
belief to a hard test. If your enemy had told me that you had
ever talked as you talk now, that you had ever looked as you look
now, I would have turned my back on him as the utterer of a vile
calumny against a just, a brave, an upright man. Oh! my friend,
my friend, if ever I have deserved well of you, put away these
thoughts from your heart! Face me again, with the stainless look
of a man who has trampled under his feet the bloody superstitions
of revenge, and knows them no more! Never, never, let the time
come when I cannot offer you my hand as I offer it now, to the
man I can still admire--to the brother I can still love!"

The heart that no other voice could touch felt that appeal. The
fierce eyes, the hard voice, softened under Crayford's influence.
Richard Wardour's head sank on his breast.

"You are kinder to me than I deserve," he said. "Be kinder still,
and forget what I have been talking about. No! no more about me;
I am not worth it. We'll change the subject, and never go back to
it again. Let's do something. Work, Crayford--that's the true
elixir of our life! Work, that stretches the muscles and sets the
blood a-glowing. Work, that tires the body and rests the mind. Is
there nothing in hand that I can do? Nothing to cut? nothing to
carry?"

The door opened as he put the question. Bateson--appointed to