Tor was too much taken aback to make any immediate reply. He glanced at Roma, who sat with hands clasped closely together like one in pain, her head bent, and her face covered with blushes, which were those of misery and humiliation, with nothing in them of maiden shame or joy. Tor saw at a glance how matters stood with her—saw that her position was infinitely more trying than his; and his one desire now was to save her as far as possible from needless pain. But Michael Meredith must not be agitated. Agitation meant death to him at such a time as the present. Tor was perfectly aware of this, and had no intention of killing the father before his daughter’s eyes. Even the short silence which followed his speech seemed to cause some slight uneasiness to the sick man. ‘You do not speak—you do not answer!’ he said, with a certain sharpness, and a catch in his breath which showed how easily he was agitated. Tor signed to Roma to give him brandy, and answered gently enough: ‘If I do not speak, it is not because I do not feel. I am deeply conscious of the honour you do me; Roma and I both understand all that your words mean to us. But whilst you are so ill, we would rather postpone further discussion. What has passed already is enough for us.’ The strained look upon the white face relaxed, and the rapid breathing grew more natural. ‘It is well,’ he said; ‘dutiful, filial, affectionate! All is very, very well. Roma, give me your hand.’ She obeyed, rising and standing beside the bed, opposite to Tor. Her eyes were lowered, her hand shook a little, yet something in Tor’s manner took away the keen edge of her pain and shame. ‘Your hand, Philip Debenham,’ said Meredith. Tor placed his own within the sick man’s feeble clasp, and thus Michael Meredith had the extreme gratification of joining together the hand of his daughter Roma, and that of the man whom he believed to be Philip Debenham. ‘Bless you, my children!’ he said fervently. Roma felt compelled to raise her eyes with imploring deprecation to the young man’s face, and found that Tor was smiling down upon her with such a kindly reassurance in his eyes, that she could but smile back, and feel that he at least did not misunderstand her. Their right hands were still joined. Tor bent his head over them and kissed—not her hand, but the empty air. Michael Meredith smiled slowly. ‘Have you a ring?’ he asked dreamily. ‘I should like the pledge to be given and received before my eyes.’ Tor wore Phil’s watch and chain, and there was upon it, with Mr. Debenham’s seal, a ring which had belonged to his wife. This he disengaged, and placed upon the third finger of Roma’s left hand, with another reassuring smile. Michael Meredith fingered the little antique hoop of chased gold, and his face lighted up with a peculiarly sweet smile.