the way to behave to a lady? Take your hat
off, sir, or I'll knock it off for you in two seconds."

"Pish!" said the other, contemptuously;
"I don't mind you. I could make the whole set
of you change your note in two minutes; so
be civil, my own old gentleman; this is not the
Continent."

"You infernal scoundrel!" said the captain,
giving the crown of his bishop's hat a violent
bang, "how dare you talk of the Continent?
You behaved like a blackleg. You did murder
there; and if there was law or justice —"

The other interrupted him in a fury.

"Murder, and law, and justice; you'd better
not talk of that in this house! We'll see what's
to be said about that; and you shall hear, too.
The time's gone by, old fellow, for humbugging.
We had enough of that for these fifteen years."

The captain replied in a low voice, completely
changing his manner. "Come with me.
I tell you, the man's dying. He'll hear you."

But the door was now drawn away from her
hand, and the pale face and tottering figure of
Mr. Tillotson stood there looking out on them.

"Let them come in," he said, in a low broken
whisper. "It is better to convince them. It is
better to have it over. I knew it would come to
this. I was sure of it. Indeed, it was a fit
retribution. I was hoping to have died in
peace; but —"

"And have taken this secret to the grave
with you, Tillotson? But you brought it
all on yourself. If you had behaved open-hand
and above-board with me, I should have
stood by you, and no one should have known of
this business, from me at least. A man must
live; and, recollect, it was you who ruined me.
I appeal to him here if that's not true. I'd
have had an estate now, and been happy and
rich, only that my father turned me off, and
cut me out all on account of a business of his
—a secret."

"It shall be a secret no longer," said Mr.
Tillotson. " I tell it here — before all. It is a
right humiliation for me."

"Better take care," said the other; "you're
not obliged, you know. Think twice."

He took his wife's hand. "I shall leave you no
legacy of terrorism. These men shall not have
it in their power to persecute you. You have
guessed it, indeed, and can think no worse of
me. In a word, when I was young I fell into
bad ways and bad courses, and was the wildest
and most dissipated of my friends — all but broke
my poor parents' hearts —"

"Now think twice," said Eastwood. "It's no
use, you know. Stop there; take my advice."

"Twice I broke away from them and outraged
them in every way; and twice they forgave.
Finally — let me hurry to this—I went
to Paris; got into worse company there. I
got infatuated with a boyish passion — O,
forgive me this humiliation of you — and was
beaten unworthily even in that contest by one
older than I was, and whom that moment I
hated with a hate that could only be satisfied
with blood. But he avoided me instinctively,
and at last fled from Paris. I, urged by some
devil " (Eastwood gave a sort of laugh. "A
compliment to me: I was with him!"), "pursued
him, then got on his track, and at last
hunted him down at a little Italian town —
Spezia. Ah! you shrink from me, dear."

Up to this point her hand had been in his.
He had felt it fluttering and trembling. Now,
when he mentioned that ltalian name, she started,
and half drew it away.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, hastily. "Go
on."

"Yes," he said, "let me finish. A sentence
will do it. That very night, behind the garden
of the hotel, I shot him in what was called a duel,
but what was a cruel, unfair, cold-blooded —O
God, forgive me!"

She had now drawn her hand away, for she
was covering her face with both her hands.
When he raised his eyes, they fell on her again.

"Yes," he said, "it is right. You must shrink
from me."

"No, indeed," she said, with a faltering
voice; "it is not that."

"It is not that?" he repeated. " No matter.
That is not all. He had left a little girl, this
murdered man. I know what became of her,
a fond darling, that worshipped him. She died
of it, they told me. So that also is on my
soul —"  He stopped, for she had turned away
her face. " No wonder!" he said, sadly. "I
told you, recollect. So I could not ask her forgiveness.
But there may be forgiveness for all
three yet."

It had grown darker, and no one spoke. The
golden streak had cooled out, and there was
now the moon up, and a great waste of deep,
colder blue. He put out his hand. "Ah! she
has gone!" he said; "she has left me! I told
her and warned her that she would not bear to
hear the truth!"

She had, indeed, glided from the room.
Could they have seen her a moment later, they
would have seen her on her knees, with her face
down on a chair, weeping and praying convulsively.
In another moment she rose and
dried her eyes, and prepared to return. She lit
the lamp and brought it in with her.

When she entered, she found the room silent
and cleared. They were gone. The captain
had got them away. The dying Mr. Tillotson
saw her enter, as he had so often seen her enter,
bearing the light — herself soft light. She ran
to him, as if answering all the doubt, grief,
and pain she saw in that worn face, and put her
arms about him.

There was a faint sparkle glittering over in
the cathedral, and sounds of music came floating
dreamily into the room (for the organist had
just gone in to practise). The doubt, the grief,
and the pain all passed away in a moment, as if
by the touch of an amulet. She heard him.
whisper, "Ah! you forgive me?"

Then kneeling down beside him, she put her
face close, quite close, to his cheek, and forcing
those sweet lips into a smile of fervour, she
whispered: