est such a thing."

This was true. Much as he valued money, he would have rather starved
than taken sixpence from the girl who had scorned him; the girl whose
very presence gave rise to a terrible conflict in his
breast--passionate love, bitterest antagonism.

"There are the few things that I possess myself--jewels, books,
furniture--special gifts of dear Edward's. Those are my own, to dispose
of as I like. I might make a will leaving them to you, Conrad. They are
trifles, but----"

"They will be precious _souvenirs_ of our wedded life," murmured the
Captain, who was very much of Mr. Wemmick's opinion, that portable
property of any kind was worth having.

A will was drawn up and executed next day, in which Mrs. Winstanley
left her diamonds to her daughter, her wardrobe to the faithful and
long-suffering Pauline--otherwise Mary Smith--and all the rest of her
belongings to her dearly-beloved husband, Conrad Winstanley. The
Captain was a sufficient man of business to take care that this will
was properly executed.

In all this time his daily intercourse with Violet was a source of
exceeding bitterness. She was civil, and even friendly in her manner to
him--for her mother's sake. And then, in the completeness of her union
with Rorie, she could afford to be generous and forgiving. The old
spirit of antagonism died out: her foe was so utterly fallen. A few
weeks and the old home would be her own--the old servants would come
back, the old pensioners might gather again around the kitchen-door.
All could be once more as it had been in her father's lifetime; and no
trace of Conrad Winstanley's existence would be left; for, alas! it was
now an acknowledged fact that Violet's mother was dying. The most
sanguine among her friends had ceased to hope. She herself was utterly
resigned. She spent some part of each day in gentle religious exercises
with kindly Mr. Scobel. Her last hours were as calm and reasonable as
those of Socrates.

So Captain Winstanley had to sit quietly by, and see Violet and her
lover grouped by his fading wife's sofa, and school himself, as he best
might, to endure the spectacle of their perfect happiness in each
other's love, and to know that he--who had planned his future days so
wisely, and provided, like the industrious ant, for the winter of his
life--had broken down in his scheme of existence, after all, and had no
more part in this house which he had deemed his own than a traveller at
an inn.

I