"Yes," she said, "I can hardly do otherwise, now. For he asks me to make a decision. He wants to come over and marry me, and take me out there to--to Siberia to live." "To Siberia!" echoed Denzil in horror. In truth, the idea of this brother of Rona's had occupied but a very small niche in his mind. He was abroad, he was poor, he hardly counted, except in so far as he would be overcome with joy at the marvelous condescension of Mr. Vanston in raising his sister to the rank and dignity of his wife. And now he faced the idea that this man was a living power, to be reckoned with; that he could, if he chose, take Rona away, to the ends of the earth, and leave him bereft of all that made life pleasant to him. And, on that, another thought shot swiftly into his mind. If David Smith were no relative, then David Smith had no legal claim. To such claim as gratitude may give, Denzil had a far better right than he. "You see," said Rona, "if he comes home to marry me, everything must be known. There cannot be any more secret-keeping. David can tell you nothing of me; when you found me, I had only known him a day or two; he knows no more than I do of my family or position. I have never been told who my mother was, nor my father. I was brought up in a convent school. I had been there ever since I was a baby. My uncle, Rankin Leigh, who took me away, was a perfectly detestable person--a person you would not speak to, nor have any dealings with. Oh," she wound up, with a sort of grim desperation, "it is of no use! You could never marry a girl like me. He had better come and fetch me away. I did promise him, and he--he--poor boy, he has nobody but me." After a minute's helpless silence, "Will you show me his letter?" asked Denzil, wearily. She drew the letter from her pocket and held it to him, keeping her face hidden. She heard him draw the paper from the envelope, and sat on in miserable humiliated silence while he read. The sunshine was no longer bright to her--the gray ruins were a warning of the decay of all earthly things, however strong. Before her lay a pilgrimage into the wilderness, a dark frowning future, and separation from all home ties. He took a long time to read the letter--so long that at last she raised her head to look at him. He was seated, staring straight before him, his brows knit, and on his face a most curious expression of perplexity. "Rona," he said, with a gravity such as she had never heard from him--"I judge from this letter that this young man who wishes to marry you is entangled with some gang of Nihilists." She assented. Denzil swallowed hard, once or twice, and then said, "Could you tell me how you came to make acquaintance with him?" In his mind was a cold chill, a sudden, awful thought. Cravatz, the Pole, had been tried and acquitted at the time of Felix's condemnation.