“It is not often that rivals, such as you and I are _in every sense of the word_, can shake hands thus,” said the former, with a smile. “I will confess to you that I have had a bitter struggle with my own heart during the last few hours, but I have conquered myself. I am obliged to be convinced of the truth of the evidence you have brought me to-day, and, looking in your face, which unmistakably proclaims your relationship to the late marquis, I know that you are nearer of kin to him than I. Of course, I shall take pains to ascertain everything regarding the rector’s story for myself, and that the signatures are all right, and so forth. If there is nothing there to contradict your statements, I shall at once yield my position here, and you will henceforth be recognized as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne.” Earle could scarcely credit his sense of hearing as he listened to this noble renunciation of all the brightest prospects of his life. He had believed that he should be obliged to have recourse to the extent of the law in order to establish his claim, and now its possessor was giving up everything without a demur. He could only look the astonishment that he could not speak. Again Paul Tressalia smiled—a smile that was sadder than tears. “You look surprised at my decision,” he said; “you expected I would resist your claim. I suppose I might, if I were so disposed, and thus make you much trouble; but that would not be right, convinced as I am that you are what you say—the legitimate son of Marion Vance and George Sumner; and for the sake of one whom we both love—you fortunately, I most unfortunately—I will not place one obstacle in your path.” Earle was deeply moved by his kinsman’s manliness, and touched by his confession of his hopeless love for Editha. Still clasping the hand that had been extended so frankly to him, he said, in a voice that was not quite steady: “With such a spirit as that, _you_ should be master here at Wycliffe, and not I. It seems to me unjust that your whole life should be destroyed thus, and mine built up out of its ruins. If it were possible for me to share my inheritance with you equally, I would gladly do it; but I suppose the entail forbids that.” “Yes, it could not be, even if I were willing to accept such an obligation,” Paul Tressalia said, not unkindly, yet with a little show of spirit. Earle regarded him with admiration. “I have heard of you before—how true and good you are, and I am proud to know that I have _one_ such relative in the world. If you cannot accept any aid from me, will you not stay with me as my adviser, my elder brother, my friend?” he said, in low, earnest tones. But Tressalia shook his head, a look of pain leaping to his eyes. “I fear that would not be possible,” he said; “your own heart will tell you that I could not remain here after—after you come here permanently.” Earle saw that it could not be, and sighed. He longed to comfort him, but what could he say?