“I will tell you just the truth, foolish as it will seem to you—to anybody, I suppose—but it _is_ the truth. I had an ideal—call it a dream, a folly, if you will—but I wanted to renounce the privileges and unfair advantages enjoyed by the nobility and wrung from the nation by force and fraud, and purge myself of my share of those crimes against right and reason, by thenceforth comrading with the poor and humble on equal terms, earning with my own hands the bread I ate, and rising by my own merit if I rose at all.” The young girl scanned his face narrowly while he spoke; and there was something about his simplicity of manner and statement which touched her —touched her almost to the danger point; but she set her grip on the yielding spirit and choked it to quiescence; it could not be wise to surrender to compassion or any kind of sentiment, yet; she must ask one or two more questions. Tracy was reading her face; and what he read there lifted his drooping hopes a little. “An earl’s son to do that! Why, he were a man! A man to love!—oh, more, a man to worship!” “Why, I—?” “But he never lived! He is not born, he will not be born. The self-abnegation that could do that—even in utter folly, and hopeless of conveying benefit to any, beyond the mere example—could be mistaken for greatness; why, it would _be_ greatness in this cold age of sordid ideals! A moment—wait—let me finish; I have one question more. Your father is earl of what?” “Rossmore—and I am Viscount Berkeley!” The fat was in the fire again. The girl felt so outraged that it was difficult for her to speak. “How _can_ you venture such a brazen thing! You know that he is dead, and you know that I know it. Oh, to rob the living of name and honors for a selfish and temporary advantage is crime enough, but to rob the defenceless dead—why it is more than crime, it _degrades_ crime!” “Oh, listen to me—just a word—don’t turn away like that. Don’t go—don’t leave me, so—stay one moment. On my honor—” “Oh, on your honor!” “On my honor I am what I say! And I will prove it, and you will believe, I know you will. I will bring you a message—a cablegram—” “When?” “To-morrow—next day—” “Signed ‘Rossmore’?” “Yes—signed Rossmore.” “What will that prove?” “What will it prove? What _should_ it prove?” “If you force me to say it—possibly the presence of a confederate somewhere.” This was a hard blow, and staggered him. He said, dejectedly: “It is true. I did not think of it. Oh, my God, I do not know any way to do; I do everything wrong. You are going?—and you won’t say even good-night—or good-bye? Ah, we have not parted like this before.” “Oh, I _want_ to run and—no, go, now.” A pause—then she said, “You may bring the message when it comes.” “Oh, may I? God bless you.” He was gone; and none too soon; her lips were already quivering, and now she broke down. Through her sobbings her words broke from time to time.