in the mire; smirching was the natural consequence. For Roderick he had hatred, unmitigated by any pleasant memory of old acquaintance. But he remembered his father's many kindnesses to Roderick, and the man's crime was further blackened by ingratitude. Nor did he pity the father of the son thus disgraced. The ignoble, mean old man who had always been the object of his scorn had brought his punishment upon himself; for had he not neglected the elementary responsibilities of parentage? There could be no pity for a father of whom the son spoke openly with cynical contempt. Sylvester's eyes fell upon his own father's face, and the contrast brought a tumultuous rush of feeling. And from the wall opposite, his mother smiled down upon him through the gloom. She was gone,--the one pure, divine woman the earth had held. The one perfect man lay there, still living. He must not die. Sylvester shook with a great terror. His father was as needful as the sun in a foul and dismal world. These two were remote as stars from the rest of humanity. Through them passed his faith in God. But his faith in man was gone. On this night of vigil, after his day of self-repression and stern meting out of justice, was the culmination of all the disillusion and the bitterness of his life. Towards the three human beings upon whom he was bringing crushing disgrace his heart was cold granite. And the old man with the kindly, careworn face slept on and on by his side. At the first streaks of the winter dawn the door opened, and Ella, simply dressed for the day, entered the room. Sylvester rose with a frown and advanced to meet her. “I must take my turn,” she whispered. “There is no necessity,” he returned. “I have passed through great trouble,” she said, looking at him with eyes pathetically bright through want of sleep, “and it would be mere human kindness to let me sit here for a little alone. And you must take some rest.” “I thank you for your consideration,” he replied ironically, ignoring her appeal, “but I am not in need of rest.” He held the door open for her to pass out, but she stood her ground. “You are hard, but you claim to be just. Uncle Matthew sent for me. Aunt Agatha has told you. I have some right to be here. Besides, it would hurt him to know that you refused to let me be with him.” “If you put it that way, I must admit your claim,” he said coldly. “If you will come into the passage, I will give you some directions in view of contingencies.” She assented, and they went out together. At the end of the passage a housemaid passed wraithlike on her way to the kitchen. The crack of the stairs beneath her tread sounded sharp in the unbroken silence of the house. “Thank you, I will not forget,” said Ella, when he had ended his instructions. She disappeared into the sick chamber; and Sylvester, going to his own room, threw himself in his clothes upon the bed, and wrapped in a rug fell, through force of habit and through fatigue, into a heavy sleep.