a woman who finds his presence insupportable to her. This woman cannot,
if she would, endure this man's presence; it is her nature. Well, why
rush blindly at the impossible? She wishes to live her spoiled life
alone. The man can have no part in it--never, never! But she has money.
If in that way--"

He stretched out his hand protestingly, the fingers spread in excitement.
"No more--not another word!" he said. "I ask for forgiveness, for one
word of kindness--and I am offered money! the fire that burned me to eat,
instead of bread! I had a wife once," he added in a kind of troubled
dream, looking at her as if she were very far away, "and her name was
Mercy--her name was Mercy--Mercy Madras. I loved her. I sinned for her
sake. A message came that she was dead to me; but I could not believe
that it was so altogether, for I had knelt at her feet and worshipped
her. I went to her, but she sent me away angrily. Years passed. 'She
will have relented now,' I said, and I followed her, and found her as I
thought. But it was not she; it was a wicked ghost in her beautiful
body--nothing more. And then I turned away and cursed all things,
because I knew that I should never see my wife again. Mercy Madras
was dead. . . . Can you not hear the curses?"

Still she was unmoved. She said with a cruel impatience in her voice:
"Yes, Mercy Madras is dead. How then can she forgive? What could her
ghost--as you call her--do, but offer the thing which her husband--when
he was living--loved so well that he sold himself into bondage, and
wrecked his world and hers for it--Money? Well, money is at his
disposal, as she said before--"

But she spoke no more. The man in him straight way shamed her into
silence with a look. She bowed her head, yet not quite in shame, for