They looked at each other blankly. Then Leonard rose and walked about the room. Finally he took up a position before the fireplace, and began to speak slowly, as if feeling his way. “I suppose that it is natural that I should connect this crime with that great question about the inheritance of punishment or consequences.” “It is quite natural,” said Constance. “And yet----” “My mother and my grandmother, as I now understand, believed that the misfortunes which they so carefully concealed from me were the inheritance of the forefathers’ sins. And since these misfortunes began with this crime, it was natural that they should attribute the cause to the ancestor who died before the crime. Now, all I can learn about that ancestor is, that he was a country gentleman and Justice of the Peace, a Member of Parliament, and that he left behind him no record or memory of anything uncommon. Now, to produce this enormous list of misfortunes, one must be a Gilles de Retz at least.” “I am not acquainted with that example.” “He was a great master in every kind of villainy. About these misfortunes, however. My great-grandfather, as you know---- My grandfather died by his own hand: his brother was drowned at sea: his sister has been unfortunate throughout her life: his son, my father, died young: my uncle Frederick went abroad under a dread of disgrace, which we may forget now he has come home again. The list of misfortunes is long enough. But we cannot learn any cause--which may, even to the superstitious, account for it--under anything of inheritance.” “Why should we try to account for the misfortunes? They are not caused by you.” “I try because they are part of the whole business. I cannot escape or forget the chain of misfortune.” “If you only could, Leonard! And it is so long ago, and no misfortune has fallen upon you. Oh, what did I say once--in this very room?” “The misfortune that has fallen upon me is the knowledge of all these misfortunes--these ruined lives. The old selfish contentment is gone. I lived for myself. That is henceforth impossible. Well”--he shook himself as a dog after a swim--“I am now what you wanted me to be--like other people.” He relapsed into silence. “I cannot choose,” he said presently, “but connect these misfortunes with that first and greatest. The point of doubt is whether to speak of consequence or punishment.” “Must it be one or the other?” “The child must suffer for the father’s sin. That is most certain. If the father throws away his property, the son becomes a pauper. If the father loses his social position, the children sink down with him. If the father contracts disease, the children may inherit. All this is obvious and cannot be disputed.” “But that is not punishment for generations of innocent children.”