“There is no true love without sacrifice,” came to him as if softly wafted upon the breath of some good angel. “If you truly love Editha Dalton—if it is a pure and unselfish love, you will do _right_ and let her be happy, no matter what the cost is to yourself. Would she respect you? Would she honor you? Would she be proud to call you friend, as she once said, if, convinced of the right, you wilfully do wrong?” “No,” he said, with uplifted head, and speaking aloud, as if some one had spoken directly to him; “_I’ll keep my manhood pure, even though I am beggared by the result._” A noble spirit of self-abnegation and sacrifice arose within him; the battle was won, but his heart was broken. Editha Dalton should spend her life without a shadow to mar its brightness, as far as it lay within his power to contribute to that result; and Earle Wayne—a true and noble man he believed him to be, and every way worthy of her priceless love—should have his own without contention. “Wycliffe will have a noble master,” he murmured; “he will add brightness and honor to the name—perhaps more than I could have done. I will try to bear it patiently; I will give her my blessing with my inheritance, and then, when I come to the crossing ’twixt earth and the great beyond, I can pass over without a regret. I shall have done right and what was my duty.” He sighed heavily and threw himself upon a couch, as if exhausted with the struggle; and the good angels watching him must have come to comfort him, for almost unconsciously his eyes closed, and sleep wrapped him for the time in the mantle of forgetfulness. Did they whisper to him that almost divine message from some sweet, mystic pen: “Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long— Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong?” He had ordered dinner to be served at three o’clock. A little before that time he awoke, and went down to his guests the calm, self-contained, courteous host. The dinner-hour passed pleasantly and socially, the three gentlemen conversing unreservedly upon the topics of the day. When at length they arose from the table, Paul Tressalia requested a few minutes’ private conversation with Earle. It was cordially granted, and they repaired to the library again, while the Hon. Archibald Faxon lingered upon the dining-room balcony smoking his fragrant Havana. There was a moment’s awkward silence as those two claimants of the Wycliffe property stood facing each other; then Paul Tressalia frankly extended his hand, which Earle cordially grasped.