"Would you not accept part at least--a sum of money, you know, to begin something?" asked Katherine, her voice quivering, her nerves relaxing from their high tension, and feeling utterly beaten, her high resolves of sacrifice and renunciation tumbling about her, like a house of cards, at the touch of common-sense. "I do not think any arrangements of the kind practicable," returned Errington, with a kind smile. "I understand your eagerness to relieve your conscience by an act of restitution, but now you are exonerated. I ask nothing but that you should forgive yourself, and knit up the ravelled web of your life. The fortune ought to be yours--is yours--shall be yours." "Will you promise that if you ever want help--money help--you will ask me? I shall have more money every year, for I shall never spend my income." "I shall not want help," he returned, quietly. "But though it is not likely we shall meet again, believe me I shall always be glad to know you are well and happy. Let this painful conversation be the last we have on this subject. For my part, I grant you plenary absolution." "You are good and generous; you are wise too; your judgment constrains me. Yet I hope I shall _never_ see you again. It is too humiliating to meet your eyes." She spoke brokenly as she tied the white veil closely over her face. "Nevertheless we part friends," said Errington, and held out his hand. She put hers in it. He felt how it trembled, and held it an instant with a friendly pressure. Then he opened the door and followed her to the entrance, where he bowed low as she passed out.