after all I have gone through--but my hard work is innocent work. I am not obliged to cringe for every crown-piece I put in my pocket--not bound to denounce, deceive, and dog to death other men, before I can earn my bread, and scrape together money enough to bury me. I am ending a bad, base life harmlessly at last. It is a poor thing to do, but it is something done--and even that contents a man at my age. In short, I am happier than I used to be, or at least less ashamed when I look people like you in the face.” “Hush! hush!” interrupted Rose, laying her hand on his arm. “I cannot allow you to talk of yourself in that way, even in jest.” “I was speaking in earnest,” answered Lomaque, quietly; “but I won’t weary you with any more words about myself. My story is told.” “All?” asked Trudaine. He looked searchingly, almost suspiciously, at Lomaque, as he put the question. “All?” he repeated. “Yours is a short story, indeed, my good friend! Perhaps you have forgotten some of it?” Again Lomaque fidgeted and hesitated. “Is it not a little hard on an old man to be always asking questions of him, and never answering one of his inquiries in return?” he said to Rose, very gayly as to manner, but rather uneasily as to look. “He will not speak out till we two are alone,” thought Trudaine. “It is best to risk nothing, and to humor him.” “Come, come,” he said aloud; “no grumbling. I admit that it is your turn to hear our story now; and I will do my best to gratify you. But before I begin,” he added, turning to his sister, “let me suggest, Rose, that if you have any household matters to settle upstairs--” “I know what you mean,” she interrupted, hurriedly, taking up the work which, during the last few minutes, she had allowed to drop into her lap; “but I am stronger than you think; I can face the worst of our recollections composedly. Go on, Louis; pray go on--I am quite fit to stop and hear you.”