“You ask,” said he, “in regard to your future. I have considered this question carefully since receiving that misdirected letter this afternoon. It is wonderful what painstaking consideration we can give some questions on a very few hours’ notice. Written evidence of the black passionflower of your choice is now in my possession. I have but one course to suggest. Your friend, the adventurer, is such a contemptible coward that I doubt not he is already on nis way to Dodge City. You can easily overtake him in New York, by leaving Meade to-morrow. You have your own private fortune, well invested in government bonds. This fortune is quite ample—it is even princely. I will forward your securities to you immediately. To-morrow morning I shall hand you ten thousand dollars, which will be quite sufficient to provide you and also your friend, the adventurer, with the necessities if not indeed the luxuries of life until you receive your quarterly interest. Lucy, I have but one request; in memory of other, sweeter and holier days, give me your promise that after to-morrow we shall never meet again. Your love for Harry, even though you have none for me, now that the blighting sense of shame has swept over your weak and foolish heart, should prompt you to see the wisdom of this.” There was a cold, rasping ring in his voice, denoting unfaltering determination. The interview had evidently cost him great effort and much pain. “Never, never!” she cried, with hysterical bitterness. “Oh, I loathe the very thought of that man; his name, even, has become a terrible nightmare to me. How could I have been so blind and wicked as to forget your strength and nobility! Lyman, oh, Lyman, my husband, is there no possible way to regain your pity, if not your love? Must I forever be separated from our little Harry? Yes, I shall go away from this home, if you insist, and shall never return, but for God’s sake, Lyman, believe me, here on my bended knees before you and before God, when I say that I shall never again willingly look upon the face of Lenox Avondale. Should I meet him by chance, I would not even speak to him. Believe this of me, and all else shall be as you wish.” The captain looked into her tear-stained free, and he saw truth written thereon. “Lucy, do not kneel to me: kneel to your God.” “God will forgive me,” she sobbed, turning her eyes toward heaven, “but, Lyman, you will not.” She arose and came close to him, and gazed sorrowfully up into his face. “You do not understand me,” said the captain. “My pity you already have, although it is worth but little. Pity comes from the heart, and my heart has been made poor with long and bitter suffering.” “But, Lyman, have you no forgiveness for the penitent? Must I go out into the world alone, believing that you will never forgive my sins? I do not ask you to compromise yourself by forgetting them; but, oh, will you not tell me that you forgive them?”