Then for the first time he met Ella's glance, and a special application of his saying occurred to him. “Good-bye, all,” he said, and strode hurriedly from the room. He drew a deep breath on reaching the open air. It was good to be alone, away from the torturing irony of sympathy. And it was good to be away from the foreshadowing of reproach in a woman's eyes. That night, before he slept, he shut his teeth upon a horrible repulsion, and went into the death chamber to see that all things had been decently done. The man lay cold and pale, his jaws swathed and his eyes closed, an awful sphinx. Sylvester stood and gazed upon him till his heart grew as cold as the dead man's. It was well that he was dead, so that he could blab the disastrous secret no more. Sylvester had questioned the nurses discreetly. To his relief he had found that the delirious ravings had made no impression on their memories. He alone had been the confidant. He had tended the man with devoted skill. The strain of that terrible task was over. Now the dead past would bury its dead,--his own heart and youth therewith. He was glad the man would no longer cumber the earth--and he was glad that his wife was dead. Three days afterwards, Leroux was buried. A fussy elderly man, Leroux's cousin and sole surviving relative, shared with Sylvester the post of chief mourner, and departed into the unknown whence he came. Sylvester stood by the grave with a set, impassive face, and his father stood by his side, looking strangely like him. On the drive home it was Sylvester who exchanged a few courteous remarks with the cousin; but the old man remained singularly silent. They sat together alone that evening in the library. “Leroux died intestate,” said Matthew, breaking a long silence. “He was in a troubled state of mind and was coming to me to help him with his will.” “He had been drinking heavily,” said Sylvester. “I presumed so. He had roughed the will out. He only had a few thousands. But Dorothy was to have the greater part. I showed the draft to John Leroux to-day, who is a man of great wealth. He is desirous that his cousin's wishes should be carried out.” “I can accept no gifts from Mr. John Leroux,” said Sylvester. The old man argued the point. Morally the money was Dorothy's. Sylvester listened stubbornly. He revolted at the thought of touching Leroux's money. It was a ghastly impossibility. He repeated,-- “I cannot accept it.” “Money is money, Syl, after all; and I may not be able, perhaps, to do what I had hoped for Dorothy.” “While my daughter bears my name I can support her decently. If Mr. Leroux will not benefit by what is legally his, he can devote it to charity. It is a matter of principle.” They were both inflexible men, and they understood each other's nature. Matthew did not press the point. “Very well,” he said in a business tone. “I will tell Mr. Leroux of your decision.”