Both Ella and Miss Lanyon were acquainted with the terms of the will, though neither as yet was informed of the financial condition of the estate. The large sums bequeathed to Usher and Roderick had astonished them. Sylvester explained vaguely that they were in payment of a great debt of gratitude which his father had incurred when Mr. Usher and himself were young men together in Australia. Miss Lanyon, who never questioned such statements, took refuge in her grief from further thoughts on the matter, like the gentle, simple lady she was. But Ella, with Sylvester's words in the churchyard fresh in her mind, scented a mystery. After the reading of the will, the subject was not openly mentioned by her or by Sylvester. Roderick's name stood between them. The silence was a restraint which each felt to be irksome. At last Ella, with a woman's greater moral courage, or perhaps with a woman's love of self-castigation, resolutely plunged into matters. “Would you think it impertinent of me if I asked you to let me discuss Uncle Matthew's will with you?” She had stopped him by the library door, as he was entering after breakfast. “By no means,” he replied courteously, holding the door open for her. “Come in.” “What has happened to me during the last six months,” she said, when they were seated, “will remain with me as a memory all my life. I should like to know what to think about--Roderick.” She got the name out bravely, after a second's hesitation. “He really did what you accused him of?” “He acknowledged it to me,” replied Sylvester. “Has he always been--what men call a scamp, or was this a sudden temptation?” “He was in a desperate plight. That I know. I can't say what he was before. I have had a bitter lesson in judging men. All my standards have fallen away, and Heaven knows whom I dare judge. One doesn't know what's resisted. Burns said that a hundred years ago. And one doesn't know what remorse follows. The human soul is an awful thing. Men are better than their deeds. There is good in Roderick. I believe it.” “And his father?” “What do you mean?” he asked, startled. “Your father's will,--all that money to those two.” “I explained to Aunt Agatha.” “That was no explanation. From a hundred things I can remember now, I can't help feeling that there was force in the matter--oh, a horrible feeling--if it is as I suspect, you can understand--” “I firmly believe Roderick to be innocent of any wrong of the sort.” “Thank you,” she said. “And his father?” Sylvester rose and filled his pipe without speaking. It seemed odd to him that he felt no resentment at her questioning him. The chord in his temperament that once would have vibrated sharply and jarringly seemed to have snapped. He could only admire in a helpless way the strength of character that had carried her through so terrible an ordeal, her magnanimity, and the acuteness of her perception. But he filled his pipe with great deliberation, for to answer was difficult.