“Mr. Orme, I know you think I am laughing at you, but it is only a trick that I have, and I am in no mood for jesting any more than yourself. I know you think me a coxcomb, a trifler who hath no depth or height of feeling. But I am come here to speak serious words. I had hoped to marry Miss Carew,” he continued softly, looking Gervase full in the face with his eyes fixed and bright, “but that is past. I found that she loved a better man and a worthier than myself, and that I--perhaps that I did not love her as she deserved to be loved. With a deep sense of honour, duty merely--mistaken duty--she would have remained steadfast and allowed me to mar her happiness. I tell you--why should I not speak it?--I loved her too well to marry her, and she is free to give herself to the man she loves. I owe this speech to her, for she hath suffered, and I would not add to her sorrow.” The two men had risen to their feet, and before Gervase knew De Laprade was holding him by the hand, with the tears running down his face. “God knows,” said Gervase, steadying his voice, for he felt himself visibly affected by the other´s excessive emotion, “you are a far better and stronger man than I am. I could not have given her up.” “I am a weak fool,” said De Laprade, with a forced laugh. “But I know that you will make her happy. You must not tell her of my weakness else--There, the comedy is played out and the curtain having fallen, leaves me a sensible man again. As I have said, I depart to-morrow, to return never again, but I shall hope to hear that all goes well with you. And meantime remember Victor de Laprade, who will not forget you.” “Why,” cried Gervase, “should my happiness be gained in your loss?” “That is past,” the other said simply. “You will see Miss Carew when I leave you. She will reproach herself, and you will comfort her, for she is only a woman after all, and will find happiness and consolation. You will sometimes think of me when I am gone and perhaps--perhaps she may name one of her boys after her poor kinsman who by that time will have found rest.” When the evening came down it found Gervase Orme alone with a great happiness and a great regret. The curtain rings down and the players pass from view while the humble showman to whom this mimic stage has been a great reality, wakens from his dream, rubs his eyes and goes about his business. He has lived for a while in the stormy days of which he has written--days in which men made heroic sacrifices and performed most memorable deeds, the memory of which still stirs the languid pulses of the blood. Not the muse of history has been his companion; not his is the lofty task to write the story of his people with their valour, their endurance and their intolerant pride; it was only his to tell an idle tale for weary men by winter fires. The men and women of whom he has written did their work for good and evil, and in due time went the way of all flesh.