"I must say, my dear boy," he said kindly, "that you have great cause for sorrow, but you must bear adversity like a man, and I feel sure the result will be beneficial to your future life--sooner or later we all feel what Goethe calls 'world sorrow,' and it is that which changes us from careless youth to thoughtful manhood--your trial has come earlier and has been a more bitter one than that of most men, but believe me, out of this apparent evil good will come; remember the saying of the old Roman lyrist, _Perrupit Acheronta Herculeus labor_--time will bring you relief, and, if you resist manfully, you also will be able to break through this Acheron of sorrow and pain." Reginald listened attentively to this long discourse, and, at its conclusion, lifted his head proudly. "I agree with all you say, sir," he replied steadily, "and hope to profit by your advice, but you must not think me a mere weakling who gives in without a struggle when trials come. No, I think your training has taught me more than that. I feel bitterly the circumstances of my birth, and in having parents I can neither honour nor respect, but the cruellest blow of all is that I must renounce all hope of the woman I love--it is very hard, indeed, to almost gain the prize and then lose it through no fault of my own." "I think you misjudge Una," said the vicar quietly, "she is not the woman to act in such a way--in fact, now that you have met with misfortune, I think she will love you more than before." "I hope so, yet I doubt it," replied the young man gloomily; "but now that all my past is ended in ruin I must look to the future and try and win a respected name--which I have not got now. But first, what am I to do about my parents?" "Regarding your father," said the vicar thoughtfully, "I don't think you will see any more of him, as he will probably leave the village to-day--now that he can gain nothing from you he will probably leave you alone--but as to your mother, your place is certainly by her side." "But look how she has deceived me." "If she has erred it is through love of you," replied Dr. Larcher gravely, "and after all she is bound to you by the ties of nature. Yes, you must look after her; but what about yourself?" "I will go to London and make a fortune by my voice." "Your last sojourn in London was not productive of any good result," said the vicar in gentle rebuke. "Perhaps not, but if I erred it was with my head not my heart. I was miserable, and tried to drown my sorrows in dissipation, but now I go to town under widely different circumstances--a pauper where I once was wealthy--so my only dissipation now will be hard work." "That is right," said the vicar, approvingly. "I am glad to see you accept the inevitable in such spirit--_levius fit patientia Quidquid corrigere est nefas_." "It's the only spirit in which I can accept the future," answered Reginald sadly, "seeing that I am to pass the rest of my life without Una."