Poor Maggie! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. For weeks she has worked hard to support her brother, and watched by his bedside in her spare hours. She has stinted herself of food to buy him little delicacies. But of late, work has been hard to get, and during the last week she has obtained but scant employment, barely sufficient to buy bread with. At this moment food has not passed her lips for thirty-six hours, and the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, the remnants of some bread from the crumb of which she had made her brother a little bread and milk. Poor Maggie! It is as well. He wants no bread and milk now. But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is all over. She merely closes the dull, staring, lustreless eyes, smooths the worn coverlet once more, joins his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small crucifix from her chest, kisses it, and places it between his thin white fingers. Then she turns to Evie Ravensdale. “He is dead, your Grace,” she says meekly; “it is God’s will. I will never forget your kindness in forgiving him. Poor Eric! he was a good lad if he had not been led astray. Can I fetch you a cab, your Grace?” Her voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact, and yet Maggie Fortescue is alone in the world, hungry, tired, weary, and penniless. “No, Maggie,” he says gently, “certainly not. I am going away now, but I will send some one to help you. And when you have buried your poor brother, you must come to this address and let me know. I have several things to ask you, and you must let me help you to earn a comfortable living.” “God bless your Grace!” she answers in a low voice. Then, as Evie Ravensdale turns to go, she holds out some silver to him, saying as she does so: “It’s the change, your Grace, out of what you gave me to get those things for Eric.” “Keep it, keep it, Maggie,” he says huskily; and then he turns and leaves the poor scantily furnished room in which he has learned so much, and in which he has established, absolutely and completely, the innocence of the woman whose lost image is ever before his eyes. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. And while Eric Fortescue unburdens his soul of the heavy sin that has stained it, and bears it, purified and triumphant, through the portals of a new life, there is confusion and rage in the heart of Mr. Trackem as he sits at his business table hastily examining papers and committing them to the safe keeping of a large fire, which consumes each consignment as it is thrown in. Mr. Trackem’s usually confident and satisfied expression, has given place to one of anxiety and fear. That he is disturbed is evident. “Curse the fellow!” he keeps muttering to himself; and then a gleam of baffled rage shoots from his cunning eyes. There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. He is evidently acquainted with it, for he looks up eagerly and calls out, “Come in.”