"Yes," he answered vaguely, still staring at her. "I am afraid--your life----" "There has been very much sorrow--and very much joy," she interrupted, as gently as she had spoken before; "and now--I am within sight of the end, and--I am glad." He came close to her, and for the first time touched her hand. "Why do you say that?" he asked, his usually grim voice curiously softened. "You are ill now, but I hope with care--in time----" She interrupted him again, a smile on her face. "No, it is not a question of care, or time. I am glad it is not. It is only a question of how long my strength will hold out. You know--Max--is--dead?" She said the words as simply as though she were merely saying that somebody had gone into the next room, and her brother started. "Dead?" he exclaimed. "No; I did not know. I heard he was in England, heard it vaguely and undecidedly, and I have been trying to find you both. I wanted to prevent any--any talk--any scandal." "There need never be any talk now. He came to England--only a few weeks before he died. He--had been--wandering about Europe--and then he came--to England--to die." She spoke quietly, but the pauses in her sentence, seemed to show what a mental strain she was enduring. "Marion helped him to get here. I was too ill to do it, and--I did not dare to do too much, lest through me any clue to his whereabouts should be given. I do not think he was ever safe--not safe for a single instant. But--he is out of their reach now--safe at last." Sir Arthur's mouth set tightly, there was a gleam of indignation in his eyes, but he remembered the doctor's orders, and refrained from uttering the biting speech upon his lips. "Marion--who is Marion?" he said. "She was English maid to Max's mother--a faithful soul, such a faithful soul. All our letters to one another passed through her hands. She took this house; she brought Max here; she sent for me; and then--the long strain told. She had borne so much; she could bear no more. It--was all very dreadful; she lost her reason; she went suddenly mad; and the doctors do not think she can ever be well again. She is quite happy now, quite peaceful, they tell me, like a little child, but her mind has gone." "And you, Margaret, surely now you must regret," Sir Arthur began impetuously, the natural man asserting itself, in spite of all the doctor's warnings. But again his sister's low voice broke the thread of his speech. "Regret?" she said. "Oh! no. It hurts me to think that I hurt our father and mother, but for myself--I cannot be sorry. I love him so, and for all our lives together, I had his love--he was always mine." "But"--do what he would, Sir Arthur felt impelled to give voice to the flood of thought within him--"he was not worthy of you, Margaret. You can't pretend that he was worthy of your love?" A great rush of colour poured over her white face, her thin hands trembled.