Mrs. Penlogan rose at once and fetched the family Bible and handed it on to Ruth. It fell open at the 23rd Psalm: "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." Ruth read it in a low, even voice. It was her father's favourite portion--his sheet-anchor when the storms of life raged most fiercely. Now he was beyond the tempest and beyond the strife. For the first time Ralph felt thankful that he was dead. "Dear old father," he said to himself. "He has got beyond the worry and the pain. His heart will ache no more for ever." They all knelt down when the psalm ended; but no one prayed aloud. Ralph remained after the others had gone upstairs. It seemed of little use going to bed, he felt too restless to sleep. Ever since Dorothy went away he had been expecting Policeman Budda to call with a warrant for his arrest. Why he had not come he could not understand. He wondered if Dorothy had interceded with her father, and his eyes softened at the thought. He did not blame himself for loving her in a restrained and far-off way. She was so fair and sweet and generous. That she was beyond his reach was no fault of his--that he had carried her in his arms and pressed her to his heart was the tragedy as well as the romance of his life. That she had watched by him and succoured him in the plantation was only another cord that bound his heart to her. That he should love her was but the inevitable sequence of events. It was foolish to blame himself. He would be something less than man if he did not love her. He had tried his hardest not to--had struggled with all his might to put the memory of her out of his heart. But he gave up the struggle weeks ago. It was of no use fighting against fate. It was part of the burden he had been called upon to bear, and he would have to bear it as bravely and as patiently as he knew how. He was not so vain as to imagine that she cared for him in the smallest degree--or ever could care. Moreover, she was engaged to be married, and would have been married months ago but for her accident. Ralph got up from his chair and began to walk about the room. Dorothy Hamblyn was not for him, he knew well enough, and yet whenever he thought of her marrying Lord Probus his whole soul revolted. It seemed to him like sacrilege, and sacrilege in its basest form. It was nearly midnight when he stole silently and stealthily to his little room, and soon after he fell fast asleep. When he opened his eyes again the light of a new day filled the room, and a harsh and unfamiliar voice was speaking rapidly in the room below. Ralph leaned over the side of his bed for a moment or two and listened. "It's Budda's voice," he said to himself at length, and he gave a little gasp. If Dorothy had interceded for him, her intercession had failed. The law would now have to take its course.