"Take Lettice into another room," Dr. Bryant said quietly, and Felix obeyed. Half-an-hour later Dr. Bryant appeared alone, entering the study where the brother and sister had taken refuge. Lettice, not a little shaken by the past scene, was sobbing still: but at the sound of his step, she stood up. "Is Mrs. Bryant—!" she tried to say. Dr. Bryant was still ashen pale, with the look of a man who has received a severe blow. He came in front of Lettice, and said, "My child, forgive me!" Lettice clung to him, without a word. "Forgive me!" he repeated. "You have been cruelly wronged." "You couldn't know! You couldn't tell. It was not your fault. I have nothing to forgive." "You have much! I ought to have been sure! The marvel to me now is—how I could ever have thought it possible. My own credulity amazes me." His grieved look wandered to the brother, and Felix said promptly, "The other would have seemed much more impossible." "True!" Dr. Bryant sighed heavily. "The least of the pain is that our little lad is safe at Home!" "Don't mind about me! Don't think of that again," entreated Lettice. "You have been so good, so dear and good to me always. And if I had spoken out at first—" "That was always a mystery! I never could understand your silence. Why not have denied it from the beginning?" Lettice was dumb, and Felix spoke for her. "She thought she might divert suspicion upon me. I was in the room, also, with the bank-note." "I see!—" with a flash of understanding. "But, no! How could that affect you? You were not in the room alone?" "Yes,—alone!" "Ah!" The sound was almost a groan. "It is all right now—I mean, you will never doubt me again—and I shall always be your child!" murmured Lettice, longing to comfort him. His lips touched her brow, as he echoed,— "Always my child!" "Is she any better, uncle?" A negative mournful movement came in answer. "She has insisted on being alone for a time. After all—what can one do? What can any one say to comfort her? . . . Now you must both go to bed? And do not hurry up in the morning, either of you. Breakfast can be made ready at any time." "And you, uncle?" "I must have a little time to myself. Good-night, dear child. Try to sleep . . . There is need to sorrow more for the living than the dead; and that touches me more closely than you." "I think—what touches you touches me!" she tried to say. "Thanks, my comfort!" and with a stirred face he was gone, able to bear no more. "I am glad I know him," Felix observed abruptly. "There's something noble about that man—something unlike other men!" Four days later, Keith was laid to rest in the little village churchyard; and some who knew Theodosia well, said plainly that it was a merciful stroke which had taken the boy thus early away from her influence. Dr. Bryant, whatever he might have felt, passed no such judgment. He uttered no reproaches, and showed to his wife only a steadfast compassion.