"Do you mean to say that you will take the child back again--back to that squalid home--yes, for such it is, Vesty--that you will deprive him of all that might be, and give him up to a fisherman's wretched life and dreary fate?" "Will you make a better man of him in the world than his father was?" said Vesty simply. "You know that I worship Gurdon Rafe's memory," cried Mrs. Garrison, with adroit heat. "What do you think would please him best for his wife and child--misery and cold with an old man who could have a better home among his own kin, had he not to make the effort to support you--or happiness and warmth and love, and a great sphere of usefulness, happiness, and education for his child?" "You see," said Vesty, on the plain Basin path, "in trying to get those things we might miss the only--the greatest--thing, that Gurdon had. I'd rather my boy should learn to have that, and miss all the others." "O my dear! you shall teach your child, you shall be always with him. I have some things to remember and regret, Vesty. I promise you solemnly--and I do not break my word--I will not interfere. You shall teach and guide your child as you will." Notely was awake and calling. "Go to him," said Mrs. Garrison, excitement in her eyes; "he will explain to you, my child." There was a tenderness, a hope, a voluptuousness of sweet earthly things in her manner toward the poor girl now, which all her life Vesty had missed. Heart and flesh were weary, and Notely, who had been the light of her life once, looked up at her with that weight of sorrow, so much darker and heavier than her own; so much heavier because it was dark. "Help me to bear it!" he said. She understood all; she laid her head beside him, sobbing. "Vesty, you know the doctors say that I shall live; but--now that I am sane again, I do not know why I should wish to live." She put her hand on his. Alas! in spite of reckless wandering and tragedy, and forsaken faith and duty, the touch only thrilled him with his own dreams as of old. "Listen, Vesty!--just as you used to be my little woman and reason with me. Ugh! how weak I am! I'm not worth saving. It is of little consequence, truly; but, such as it is, it all lies with you. Some time, Vesty--I am speaking of what must be some time, dearest; and remember, it is often done in the world, among those who are highest and richest and socially recognized--well, it is a familiar thing: as soon as it can be well arranged--and that soon, now--my wife and I shall be divorced. We have both wished it, we are unhappy together, it is a wrong for us to live together. She has been untrue enough to me, as I to her, but let that pass; such things are not for your ears to hear, only you need have no qualms. Grace will be more congenially wedded within two months after we are parted.