“Yes,” replied Sylvia, walking about the dimly lighted hall, “God will be with me. I have had a great many doubts, as you know. I asked--” She stopped in her restless walk and tried to speak Skelton’s name, but could not. She continued: “He always put me off gently. He told me those people were best off who could believe in God, the Father of us all; that it was very simple, but simple things were usually the best. He told me I might read a great deal--my mind was very eager on the subject--but that those who claim God is not proved cannot themselves prove he is not. And I can even believe in the goodness of God now, for, at the very moment that I was to lose--” She still could not speak Skelton’s name, and indicated it by a pause--“I had one moment of rapture that was worth a lifetime of pain. I found out that _he_ loved me better than he had ever loved anything on earth. Nothing can ever rob me of that moment. I shall carry it through this world and into the next, where there is a glorious possibility that we may meet again.” She turned, and went quietly and noiselessly up the broad, winding stair. She looked like a white shadow in the gloomy half-light. About midway the stair, her form, that to Conyers, watching her, had grown dimmer at every step, melted softly into the darkness. Conyers turned and left the house. When he reached Deerchase again everything was solemnly quiet. In a corner of the hall Bulstrode was sitting by the round table, with a lamp on it, leaning his head upon his hands. Lewis was sleeping upstairs, and Blair was watching him. Conyers, ever mindful of others, sent the servants off to bed and closed the house. He would be the watcher for the rest of the night. It was then about two o’clock in the morning. Conyers went into the library and looked long and fearlessly at that which lay so peacefully on the sofa. Death had no terrors for him. He believed the human soul worth everything in the world, but the body, living or dead, mattered but little. On the table lay a riding glove of Skelton’s, still retaining the shape of the fingers. Scraps of his writing were about--two letters, sealed and addressed--a book with the paper knife still lying between its uncut leaves. Conyers, calm and almost stoical, looked at it all, and then, going into the hall, sat down at the table where Bulstrode was, and, opening a small Bible in his pocket, began to read the Gospel of St. Matthew. The light from the lamp fell upon his stern features, that to the ordinary eye were commonplace enough, but to the keener one were full of spirituality. He was half-educated, but wholly good. He wandered and blundered miserably, but faith and goodness dwelt within him. After a while Bulstrode spoke, his rich voice giving emphasis to his earnest words: “Conyers, I would give all I know for the peace you enjoy.” “Peace!” said poor Conyers, raising his sombre eyes to Bulstrode’s. “I have no peace. It is all warfare.”