A pale frail old student with the hands of a labouring man--that was her first impression of Mumples' husband. He had the air of remoteness from the world and of having done with the storms of life which comes to men who have lived many years in a library; his face was lined, but his eyes calm and placid. Only those incongruous hands, with their marks of toil, hinted at the true story. He spoke in a low voice, as though it might be an offence to speak loud; his tones were refined and his manner respectful and rather formal. It was evidently unsafe to make any parade of sympathy with Mumples--she was near breaking-point; but the exchange of a glance, on which Sibylla ventured, showed that her agitation was of joy and satisfaction. Evidently the meeting had disappointed the worst of her fears and confirmed the dearest of her hopes. "I have to thank you, madame," the old man said, "for the great kindness you and your family have shown to my wife during my absence." "We owe her far more than she owes us. I don't know what we should have done without her." "The knowledge that she had good friends did much to enable me to endure my absence," he went on. "She's looking well, is she not, madame? She appears to me less changed than I had thought possible." Sibylla could not resist another quick glance at Mumples. "And I haven't seen her for ten years." He paused and looked at Sibylla in a questioning way. "Don't worry any more about that, Luke," said Mrs. Mumples with her hand on his shoulder. "You knew what suited you best. What was the good of my coming, if it wasn't to be a comfort to you." "It was selfish of me, madame; but you've no idea what it is to be in--in such circumstances as I was. I've been unfortunately a man of quick temper, and I couldn't trust myself in all cases. I got beside myself if I was reminded of the outside world--of all I was losing--how the years went by--of my wife, and the home and the life I might have had. It was because I loved her that I wouldn't see her----" "Yes, yes, I'm sure of that," said Sibylla hastily. "But it was selfish, as love sometimes is, madame. I ought to have put her first. And I never thought what it would mean to her when I did what brought me to that place. Well, I've paid for it with my life. They've taken my life from me." "You've many years before you, dear," whispered Mrs. Mumple. "I have so few behind me," he said. "They've blotted out two-thirds of my life. Looking back on it now, I can't see it as it was. It seems long, but very empty--a great vacant space in my life, madame." "Ah, but you've your home and your dear wife now--and we shall all be your friends." How dull and cold her words seemed! Yet what else was there to say in face of the tragedy? "I'm deeply grateful to her and to Heaven; but I--I have nothing left. It seems to me that the years have taken everything." Mrs. Mumple put her hand down to his worn hand and caressed it.