“She came to me herself, and told me, a soul-stricken woman,--just after. She loved the man, Syl, and had always loved him. Circumstances estranged them, they thought for ever. And then--she was a brave woman, Syl--she fancied she could make a good man's life happy,--yours. But the mistake was cleared up, and he returned. She loved him,--my boy, we can't kill love,--but she was proud of her honour and scorned running from temptation; relied on her strength too far, until one day, only one day, Syl, it failed her, in a whirl of madness. She came to me to ask what she should do. I have never seen such frantic grief in a human soul. And a good many have brought their troubles to me,” he added with one of his rare smiles. “That is true,” said Sylvester. And a sudden impulse made him add, “God bless you!” For the thought, of a soul in pain flying instinctively to the sympathy of those kind eyes brought a gush of tenderness. He saw him again as the wise counsellor, the generous friend, the child-hearted lover of all things, great and small. “And you told her--?” he queried in a low voice, deeply moved. “A greater judge than I set the precedent. She was the truest wife to you thereafter.” “Tell me, father,” said Sylvester, huskily, “when was it? Dorothy?” “Your own flesh and blood,” said the old man, gripping his hand. “My poor boy, how you must have suffered!” He lay back again, prostrated by his sustained effort of speech, and closed his eyes. Sylvester leaned forward, half reclining on the bed, still holding his father's hand. And as he sat there silent, a veil seemed to be drawn from before his vision. “She--Constance must have suffered,” he said at last. Matthew opened his eyes and met his son's gaze wistfully. “Don't we all? If the stainless like you suffer, what of us poor sinners who struggle towards the light! Think of the agony of that pure and delicate soul who bore you, my son. Pray for all poor souls, Syl.” His voice had grown singularly faint. The tears leaped to Sylvester's eyes. He tried to speak, but his throat was clogged with unaccustomed sobs. With instinctive ashamedness he buried his face in the pillow next to his father, still holding his hand. He lay there a long time, his heart aching with the returning love as a limb to which the tourniquet has been applied aches with the returning blood. Once the old man whispered a prayer for the son's forgiveness, and when Sylvester pressed his hand, relapsed into his half-sleep as if reassured. Time went by. Presently Sylvester heard him murmuring in a scarcely audible voice. Gradually the sense of the words came to him. The old man was repeating scraps of verse:-- “Freres humains, qui apres nous vivez, N'avez les cueurs contre nous endurciz, Car, si pitié de nous pouvres avez, Dieu en aura plustost de vous merciz. Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie,