“With all my other sins, I had a secret that I had kept for more than twenty years, and expected it would die with me. I did not believe there was a soul living who knew aught of it, or who could ever discover it. “But there was; justice was on my track, and, like an avenging Nemesis, pursued me with a relentless determination. I fled, I hid, I vowed I would not be thwarted out of _every_ scheme I had formed, but all to no purpose, and one day I was brought face to face with a foe, of whose existence I had not dreamed until only a short time before. “Foiled at every point, my last weapon wrested from me, I lost all control of myself, and in my anger and mortification ruptured a blood vessel in the lungs, and knew that my days were numbered. “It was not a pleasant thing to know that death had set his mark upon me, and for awhile I tried to fight the conviction; but it was of no use, and then I began to think; and one has very different ideas regarding the end and aim of man, when ‘Death sits grinning his horrible, ghastly smile upon him,’ than when in the full vigor of life. “Like two vivid pictures, your life and mine arose up before me—my own, full of pride, ambition, and selfishness, with no principle of truth or goodness in it, and ending in utter wreck; yours, in the face of mountain-like difficulties, filled with the beauty of high resolves, noble purposes, and unwavering rectitude and nobility, not the least of which was the fact that even while smarting beneath the fiercest strokes of your enemy, you did not cease to be generous—that ten thousand dollars, with all my arrogance and bravado, has lain heavy on my conscience ever since you made it over to me. “I am nearly done. I could not rest—I could not die until I had told you all this. I do not ask you to forgive me; the words would seem but mockery to you. The purity of your life, standing out in such bold relief against the blackness of mine, enraged me. If I could have seen you angry—if I could really have found a flaw in you—perhaps I should not have always been so bitter. I say it always angered me, until I was obliged to lie here and think. Now it shames me, and I would be glad if I could annihilate from _your_ memory the shame of having had such a father. I cannot make any atonement for the past to either you or Editha. I can only wish that your future may be as full of happiness as you both deserve, and perhaps I may be able to contribute a trifle to it by being the first to tell you that _Editha is not my child at all_!” CHAPTER XLV MADAM SYLVESTER’S STORY Earle nearly bounded from his seat at this startling intelligence, and then, controlling himself for the sake of the sick man, sank back into his chair with a low, suppressed cry, his face almost as colorless as that of the dying man’s upon the pillow.