"I know you did, Alan. _I_ was wrong--I, who would have risked all the sin and the shame. But I have suffered so much, that I do hope I shall not be punished any more. See--I can thank you now for standing firm, and holding _me_ up too. And, dear, I know how good and faithful you have been from the very beginning. I know about those letters, and all the truth. I am content--more than content. I have had all your love--is it not so? You will look at my picture sometimes, and though she was wilful and wicked, no woman, however good or beautiful, will win you away from your own dead Helen. Ah! it hurts me to hear you sob. I feel your tears on my wrist, and they burn--they burn." Let us draw the curtain close. Even where sympathy is sure, it is not lightly to be paraded--"the agony of man unmanned." It was not long before Wyverne recovered self-control. They spoke no more aloud; but there were many of those low, broken whispers, half of whose meaning must be guessed when they are uttered, but which are remembered longer than the most elaborate sentences that mortal tongue ever declaimed. For some minutes Helen's eyes had been closed. Suddenly, though not a feature was distorted, Alan saw a terrible change sweep over her face, and rose to call in assistance. It seemed as if she divined his purpose, and wished to prevent it. The weak clasp tightened, for an instant, round his fingers, the weary eyelids lifted, enough to give passage to one last, loving look, and the slow syllables were just barely audible-- "This once--only once more." He understood her, and, stooping down, laid gently on the poor pale lips his own--almost as white and cold. Then, for a brief space, there was a great stillness--a stillness as of Death. An awful sound broke the silence--a dull, smothered cry, between groan and wail, that haunted the solitary hearer to her dying day--a cry wrung from the first despair of a broken-hearted man, who, henceforth, was to be alone for evermore. Grace Beauclere shivered in every limb, for she knew that all was over. But even then she had presence of mind enough to refrain from summoning any one from without. Helen was past human aid, and Grace knew that she could not serve her better now than by keeping for awhile curious eyes and ears away. She found Alan standing, with his head resting on his arm that was coiled round one of the pillars of the canopy. He did not seem aware of his sister's entrance, and never spoke or stirred as she cast herself down by the side of the dead, pressing kiss after kiss on the sweet, quiet face, and weeping passionately. How long they remained thus neither could have told. All at once the door of the outer room opened quickly, and Beauclere lifted the curtain and stood in the doorway. The first glance told him the truth. He walked straight up to the foot of the bed, and gazed steadily for a few seconds on the wreck of marvellous beauty that lay there so still; at last he muttered between his teeth,