y very coming; and she said things which cannot be unsaid. Things . . .
matters were so fixed that I could not explain; and I had to listen. She
said things that I did not believe she could have said to me, to anyone.
Things that I did not think she could have thought . . . I dare say she
was right in some ways. I suppose I bungled in my desire to be
unselfish. What she said came to me in new lights upon what I had done
. . . But anyhow her statements were such that I felt I could not, should
not, remain. My very presence must have been a trouble to her hereafter.
There was nothing for it but to come away. There was no place for me! No
hope for me! There is none on this side of the grave! . . . For I love
her still, more than ever. I honour and worship her still, and ever
will, and ever must! . . . I am content to forego my own happiness; but I
feel there is a danger to her from what has been. That there is and must
be to her unhappiness even from the fact that it was I who was the object
of her wrath; and this adds to my woe. Worst of all is . . . the thought
and the memory that she should have done so; she who . . . she . . . '

He turned away overcome and hid his face in his hands. The old man sat
still; he knew that at such a moment silence is the best form of
sympathy. But his heart glowed; the wisdom of his years told him that he
had heard as yet of no absolute bar to his friend's ultimate happiness.

'I am rejoiced, my dear boy, at what you tell me of your own conduct. It
would have made no difference to me had it been otherwise. But it would
have meant a harder and longer climb back to the place you should hold.
But it really seems that nothing is so hopeless as you think. Believe
me, my dear young friend who are now as a son to my heart, that there
will be bright days for you yet . . . ' He paused a moment, but
mastering himself went on in a quiet voice:

'I think you are wise to go away. In the solitudes and in danger things
that are little in reality will find their true perspective; and things
that are worthy will appear in their constant majesty.'

He stood, and laying once again his hand on the young man's shoulder
said:

'I recognise that I--that we, for my wife and little girl would be at one
with me in my wish, did they know of it, must not keep you from your
purpose of fighting out your trouble alone. Every man, as the Scotch
proverb says, must "dree his own weird." I shall not,