"It is very terrible, this idea of yours, Mr. Barton," she said; "to me very horrible! Do you mean to say that you would make the living suffer for an imaginary wrong done you by the dead? for I cannot but think it is imaginary." Barton scowled, and gripped the arm of his chair. "Miriam Crane," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about. Gerald's mother--my sister--ruined my life--ruined it as utterly and hopelessly as ever man's life was ruined. Thirty years ago I had the chance of marrying the woman I loved, of settling down and becoming a decent member of society, of having my wretched hereditary weaknesses curbed by a gentle wife--in a word, the chance of happiness was mine, and this fiend-woman, Flora, sister of my blood, put an end to it. For that, I hated her while she lived. I hate her memory a thousand times more now that she is dead. For me, her son represents her, and he must bear the punishment she escaped." "But how--why? I do not understand. You seek to punish him by marrying him to me? I am surely not such a pariah as that?" "Of course you do not understand--how should you? Later on perhaps you will understand many things that seem unintelligible to you now." "I shall never understand that the innocent should suffer for the guilty." "Oh, you know well that I pretend to be no saint. I tell you this son of hers, to me, represents her. I was not able to take vengeance upon her while she was alive--he must bear it now. Let that suffice--I need tell you no more; you now know my motive." Miriam was perplexed. She looked searchingly at Barton. Was he mad? She thought he must surely be. She did not like the light in his eye. "But," she said, "even so, I cannot see how his marriage with me is to act as the punishment you would have it. I cannot marry him against his will, even if I would; and if it were his wish to marry me, I--I--I think he would be happy."