he picture was an ideal; the very man she
could honour, love; he and no other. Did she perilously deceive herself
in thinking that this ideal and the man who spoke with her, were one?

It had grown without her knowledge, apart from her will, this
conception of Piers Otway. The first half-consciousness of such a
thought came to her when she heard from Olga of those letters, obtained
by him for a price, and given to the kinsfolk of the dead woman. An
interested generosity? She had repelled the suggestion as unworthy,
ignoble. Whether the giver was ever thanked, she did not know. Dr.
Derwent kept cold silence on the subject, after once mentioning it to
her in formal words. Thanks, undoubtedly, were due to him. To-night it
pained her keenly to think that perhaps her father had said nothing.

She began to study Russian, and in secret; her impulse dark, or so
obscurely hinted that it caused her no more than a moment's reverie.
Looking back, she saw but one explanation of the energy, the zeal which
had carried her through these labours. It shone clear on the day when a
letter from Helen Borisoff told her that an article in a Russian
review, just published, bore the name of Piers Otway. Thence onward,
she was frank with herself. She recognised the meaning of the
intellectual process which had tended to harmonise her life with that
she imagined for her ideal man. There came a prompting of emotion, and
she wrote the letter which Piers received.

All things were made new to her; above all, her own self. She was
acting in a way which was no result of balanced purpose, yet, as she
perfectly understood, involved her in the gravest responsibilities. She
had no longer the excuse which palliated her conduct eight years ago;
that heedlessness was innocent indeed compared with the blame she would
now incur, if she excited a vain hope merely to prove her feelings, to
read another chapter of life. Solemnly in this charmed stillness of
midnight, she searched her heart. It did not fail under question.

A morning sleep held her so much later than usual that, before she had
left her chamber, letters were brought to the door by the child who
waited upon her. On one envelope she saw the Doctor's handwriting; on
the other that of her cousin, Mrs. Florio. Surprised to hear from Olga,
with whom she had had very little communication for a year or two, she
opened that letter first.

"Dear Irene," it began, "something has lately come to my knowledg