This shock has been too much for you.
You are not well," said Stephen, tenderly, coming nearer to her and taking her hand.

"You must have rest and sleep at once." The hand was not Mercy's hand any more than the voice had been Mercy's voice.

Stephen dropped it, and, looking fixedly at Mercy's eyes, whispered, "Mercy, you do not love me as you used to." Mercy's eyes drooped; she locked her hands tightly together, and said, "I can't, Stephen." No possible form of words could have been so absolute.

"I can't!" "I do not," would have been merciful, would have held a hope, by the side of this helpless, despairing, "I can't." Stephen sank into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hands.

Mercy stood still, near the white callas; her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on Stephen.