"He made once a grievous mistake. He has done wrongly. But who are we?—who are you? who am I?—that we should dare to pass judgment? Which of us has not done wrongly, has not made many a sad mistake, has not been overcome by temptation? And which of us, I wonder, would in his place have come forward with frank and open confession, as he has done?" "The Squire has been my friend for many and many a year. I need not tell you that I have always esteemed, always trusted, always loved him. But I have never so esteemed him, never so loved him, never so honoured him, as at this moment." "It could be no easy step for him—for one who has taken always a foremost place among us—no easy task, to stand up here, in the presence of you all, and to tell in plain terms of the long concealment, of the lack of right dealing, into which, under severe temptation, he allowed himself to be led. And—mark you!—to make no excuse for himself; to lay blame upon no other! I do say—though I offer no word in extenuation—I do say that he is acting grandly in the present; and I honour him for it. And very sure I am, my friends, that Divine grace alone could have made possible for him such a line of conduct." Mr. Winton stopped, laying his broad hand almost caressingly upon the other's shoulder; and cheer after cheer, in gathering volume, rent the air. The Rector beamed approval. One or two county magnates, standing near, silently wrung the Squire's hand. When a break came, he made a slight forward movement, and spoke again, pausing between the words— "I thank you—one and all. You have made easier—what was, as Mr. Winton says—not easy! I thank you all—from the bottom of my heart!" Katherine had stepped nearer, and now stood beside him, her arm in his. "Come," she whispered, "you must rest!" He obeyed, walking with a slow step, almost groping his way, as if unable to see. The old family doctor had come forward, and Dick held back. He knew that he would not be wanted there. He sent one eager glance towards where Doris still waited; then, forgetting all else, and ignoring the crowd around, he turned to the Rector. "This—will it make any difference?" he asked, in a low voice of concentrated eagerness. "Now that you know who my father was?" Mr. Winton caught sight of his wife, laboriously threading her way through the throng, plainly bent upon being one of the first to congratulate the new heir. He gripped Dick's hand with a hearty shake. "I rather think it will!" he said. "You'd better just ask—her!" The gesture which indicated Mrs. Winton might almost equally have indicated Doris. Dick accepted it for both. Then the Rector, full of foreboding, made his escape to the study. He knew what the terrific strain of the last hour must have been to that proud and reserved nature. It did not surprise him to find on the sofa a prostrate and powerless form. But the changed face of the Squire wore a look of repose, to which it had long been a stranger.