He rattled on in his vehement way, and once more Sylvester fell under the spell of his exuberant personality, preferring to listen than to speak. Roderick launched out into a forecast of his future. He would forswear sack, he repeated, and live cleanly, with Art for his chaste mistress. “I got an idea for a picture, this morning, that is going to revolutionise my existence,” said he. Sylvester's acceptance of the deed of gift was like the removal of a heavy stone that had held prisoner his elvish spirit. And the more he approached the Roderick of six months ago, the more did Sylvester wonder at the nature of the man. Yet his pocket held irrefutable proof of the man's sincerity. At last he rose and held out his hand. Roderick looked at him, and looked at the hand in astonishment; then he strode a pace forward and grasped it eagerly. “You are a good fellow to shake hands with me,” said he. The ring of genuine feeling touched Sylvester deeply. “Let us bury the past,” he replied. “On my side, God knows how willingly.” “And whether we are friends or not, we'll remember that the same mother bore us.” Roderick bowed, his quick perception divining the cost at which the words were uttered. “I shall always remember it,” he said soberly. He accompanied his visitor down the stairs to the front porch of the old-fashioned hotel. The men shook hands again. Roderick disappeared in the gloom of the corridor, and Sylvester turned to see, on the other side of the street, Ella, out on some small shopping errand, watching him in amazement. He crossed the road and walked by her side. “Your question of this morning is answered,” he said. “Thank you, Syl,” she replied. “Perhaps I shall be able to keep Woodlands, after all.” “I was praying for it,” she said significantly. ***** Two days afterwards Ella left for the south of France with Lady Milmo, and Sylvester returned to town to prepare his gloomy house for Dorothy's reception. CHAPTER XXII--A GLORIOUS WORLD Two years passed and brought with them their changes, sudden and gradual. A few months after Matthew Lanyon's death, old Ebenezer Usher died of an apoplectic fit. Ruin was staring him in the face. Of all the moneys he had extorted only a few hundreds remained. Peter Vavasour & Co. and others of their bucket-shop confraternity had sucked him dry as he had sucked Matthew. Indignation at the wickedness of mankind killed him and he went to his own place. His effects were sold, and the considerable sum that was realised--for his collections of china, postage stamps, and book plates were remarkably fine--was handed over by Roderick, still zealous to atone, to Sylvester, who paid it into the funds of the Prisoners' Aid Society. And this was the end of Ebenezer Usher. The grass grows over the grave wherein he lies, some twenty yards away from his enemy. No tombstone marks, or ever will mark, the spot. “He is not the kind of man whose memory one cares to perpetuate,” said his son.