'I thought so once,' said Vincent, 'but I have done with all that. I forgave you long ago. Tell me if I can help you?' 'I have just heard for the first time,' said Mark, 'that--that my wife has not--has not treated you very kindly lately. And I came here to ask you if I am the cause.' Vincent flushed suddenly, and his breath was laboured and painful for a moment. 'What is the use of bringing that up now?' he asked; 'is it a pleasant subject for either of us? Let it rest.' 'I had no intention of paining you,' said Mark, 'I ought not to have asked you. I--I will ask Mabel herself.' 'You must not do that!' said Vincent, with energy; 'you might have spared me this--you might have guessed. Still I will tell you--it may do good. Yes, you _are_ the cause, Ashburn; the lie I told on that evening of the rehearsal has borne its penalty, as lies will, and the penalty has fallen upon me heavily. Ask yourself what your wife must think of the man I made myself appear!' 'Good God!' groaned Mark, who saw this now for the first time. 'You see,' Vincent pursued, 'I am dying now, with the knowledge that I shall never see her face again; that when I am gone she will not spare me a single regret, that she will make haste to lose my very memory. I don't complain, it is for her good, and I am content. Don't imagine I tell you this as a reproach. Only if you are ever tempted again to do anything which may put her happiness in danger, or weaken the confidence she has in you, remember what it has cost another man to secure them, and I think you will resist then.' 'Vincent!' cried Mark brokenly, 'it can't be; you are not--not dying!' 'My doctor tells me so,' said Vincent. 'I have been prepared for it a long time, and it must be coming near now--but there, we have talked enough about that. Don't fancy from anything I have said that I have lost all faith in you--you will find, very soon, perhaps, how little that is so.... Are you going already?' he added, as Mark rose hastily; 'good-bye, then; come and see me when you can, and--if we are not to meet again--you will not forget, I know.' 'No, I shall not forget,' was all Mark could say just then, and left the house. He could not trust himself to bear any longer the unhoped-for expression of confidence and regard which he saw once more upon his friend's face. As he walked home his mind was haunted by what he had just heard. Vincent dying, his last hours embittered by Mabel's coldness. Mark could not suffer that--she must see him once more, she must repair the horrible injustice she had shown--he would urge her to relent! And yet, how could she repair it, unless her eyes were opened? Gradually he became aware that a final crisis had come in his life, just as he thought all was well with him. He had said to himself, 'Peace, peace!' and it had only been an armistice. Would the results of that shameful act always rise up against him in this way? What was he to do?