“Forgive me, Syl. Don't judge after the penalty has been paid. Even common law cannot sentence a man twice for the same offence. And I 've served my time, and so did she. My God! we served it twice over. And no one knew or pitied us. I would have killed myself cheerfully to spare you the knowledge.” His voice weakened, and he murmured an inaudible sentence, then lay back exhausted on his pillows. Sylvester looked at the kind, strong face, now so ashen and aged, and a gleam was revealed to him of the spirit's tragedy beneath; confused and blurred, it is true, but still a gleam that filled him with vague disquietude. It dimly suggested possibilities of life beyond the jealously guarded gates of his soul. “You must have pity, my son,” whispered Matthew. The tone wrung the young man's heart like a material grip. It was the first sign of returning power of sensation. He cleared his throat and said constrainedly,-- “Don't talk like that, father. I am your son and must always honour you.” Matthew again turned his head and watched the grey sky. He knew his son to be a stern man, and the austere sound of his words chilled him more than the death he felt approaching. “What can I do?” he murmured, dispirited. “It was a long, long penance. Don't turn from me, my son.” “But--father,” said Sylvester, brokenly, “everything seems to have left me.” The numbness had gone, and the whole sensitive man writhed in sudden pain, with loss of faith. His mother, whom he had deemed holy as a saint, his wife whom he had worshipped as a star,--both to have been false wives, women of shame! The old torture revived, intensified tenfold. The sight of the once revered being who lay dying in utter sadness before his eyes, and for whom the old love was now fighting within him for mastery, raised the torture's poignancy to such a pitch that at last it broke through the reserve of a lifetime and found vent in a great cry,-- “My own wife was unfaithful to me. How, can I judge my mother?” A flush of life entered the dying man's cheeks. He turned quickly; his eyes were luminous. “Constance? I did not think you knew--till the other night. And then I hoped against hope.” “Did you know? How long? I only learned it after her death--Leroux's last illness. My God! does all the country-side know?” “No, Syl. I alone.” He sought his son's hand on the coverlet, and then continued in the calm, assured tone that Sylvester knew had given strength and comfort to so many. The voice had grown suddenly strong.