Hampstead gazed at the woman doubtfully, speculating as to what argument would make the strongest appeal to her. "His mother," he began gravely, "is my dearest friend. She is the most saintly woman I have ever known. One year of her life to this community is worth more than a score of years of mine—than all of mine. Let her know in private that her son is the thief, and she would grieve to death in a week. Let her know suddenly, with the force of public exposure, and it would kill her instantly, like an electric shock." But this note proved the wrong one. Marien instantly took higher ground. "I know that woman," she replied. "I have sensed her spirit. You do her injustice. If she knew the facts, she would speak, though it killed her and ruined her son, rather than see you endure for a single day what you are suffering now." Hampstead knew better than the speaker how true this was. "But there is another reason, a higher reason," he began slowly, with a grave significance that caught Marian’s attention instantly, "the soul of Rollie Burbeck!" The minister had breathed rather than spoken these last words. They had in them a sense of the awe he felt at what hung upon his actions now. For an instant, the keen eyes of the woman searched the depths of Hampstead’s own, as if she was making sure that what she heard and understood with this new and spiritual intuition which had come so swiftly out of her experience, was confirmed by what she saw. "You mean," she asked, only half credulous, "that you will suffer for his sake as you have suffered for mine, until new character begins to grow in him just as a new objective begins to stir in me? You mean that?" Hampstead nodded. "That is my hope," he said solemnly. "Oh!" Marien sighed, with a prolonged aspirate note which expressed reverence, awe, and astonishment. "But the charges? They will be pressed. You will be held—convicted—imprisoned!" "I cannot think it," argued John soberly. "A way will appear to avoid that. Yet we must contemplate the worst. One thing is sure," and his voice appeared to increase in volume without an increase of tone, "one thing is sure: In the position in which you have placed me I must remain until the thing for which I am standing has been accomplished—however long that takes—and if the wrong you have done to me confers any obligation upon you, it is to keep your lips sealed till I give you leave to open them." Miss Dounay, more humbled by this steadfast magnanimity of soul which could refuse vindication when it was offered than awed by the sudden force of self-assertion which Hampstead manifested, looked her submission. "Man!" she exclaimed impulsively, seizing both his hands for an instant. "I revere you. You are not the flesh I thought. You have altered greatly. Yours was not a pose. It is genuine. I am reconciled a little to my loss. You are not mine because I was not worthy to be yours!" Hampstead made a deprecating, repressive gesture.