"May God help me!" came in heart-rending tones from the bowed face of the accused man. "It has all come down upon me together," he moaned, raising his trembling hands to his throbbing temples, then with one pitiful, appealing, contrite look he scanned the faces of all those present, and gave himself voluntarily up, a guilty man, a culprit. He was escorted out of the house where he had shone as a star in the days of his freedom, out of the spot which held all that his poor miserable heart could care for now. Vivian Standish, the bright comet of Ottawa's gay season, seated in a corner of that covered sleigh, on that bright morning, was a hopeless, ruined man, outcast, dejected, wretched. Fifine de Maistre, in her sad voice, spoke a touching farewell to Honor and Guy and Henry Rayne. The holy resignation of her words, and the Christian spirit in which she forgave her wrongs, had strangely edified her hearers. Mr. Rayne and Honor pressed her very hard to remain and share their hospitality longer, but this she gently declined to do, and with affectionate, grateful thanks to all, and to Guy in particular, she left the house in company with the serious looking elderly lady, who awaited her, the last but one of the interesting personages who had appeared in the closing scene of the strange drama of "a culprits life." When quiet was restored, and the din of accusing voices had ceased, Henry Rayne looked proudly up at the manly young fellow who stood before him, and said, "Guy, I can never thank God sufficiently for having sent you so fortunately, in time to interrupt the course of the terrible destiny that I was forcing on to my poor little girl. A little longer would have made all the difference of a lifetime--a young life shattered and crushed in its bloom, and some day _she_ would be justified in cursing my memory and my name, after I had tried, in blind love, to secure her unalloyed happiness. I cannot live to return you, in deeds of active merit, compensation for the good you have done me--that I know and regret, but in some way I must find a means of acknowledging all I owe you, my dear boy." Here he hesitated a little, and looking from one to the other of the young people standing before him, resumed. "I suppose I am more unworthy than ever, to express a wish or a hope now, but let me tell you, before I die, of the wild wish that animated my heart to the very end, the gratification of which, would be the summit of my earthly expectations." "What is it?" and "speak it!" broke, simultaneously, from the young people's lips.