but to say, 'Charley is your son.'"

"But why did she not tell me who you were?"

"Because, if you were too late--if the mischief had been done on which
she deemed me bent--if your--if Solomon had come to harm, she would not
have had you know that Richard Yorke--the father of your child--had
blood upon his hands. Oh, mother, mother, your last thought was to keep
my memory free from stain!"

He spoke no more for full a minute; no sound was heard except the
distant murmur of the sea, for the day was fine and windless. The April
sun shone brightly in upon the pair, as if to bless their parting.

"Where is Charley?" murmured he.

"He is gone with Agnes for a walk; they will not be long; they talked of
going to the Watch Tower. You remember the old Watch Tower, Richard?"

"Well, ah, well!" answered he, smiling. "It is just twenty years ago.
How often have I thought of it!"

For a moment--before they separated forever--these two seemed to
themselves to relive the youth to which another generation had
succeeded.

"Agnes is a far better girl than I was, Richard; but she can not love
our boy more than _I_ loved _you_."

Richard answered with a smile that glorified each ghastly feature, and
brought out in them a likeness to himself of old.

"She will be his good angel, Harry," whispered Richard, gravely, "and
will guard him from himself. He will need her aid, but it will be
sufficient. I trust, I believe, that evil is not Bred in the Bone with
him, as it was with me."

There was a long, long silence, broken by a silvery laugh, which came
through the half-opened window like a strain of cheerful music, then was
suddenly cut short.

"Hush, Charley; you forget," said the soft voice of Agnes; "he may be
sleeping."

Through the calm spring air the reproof was borne into the sick man's
room as clearly as the sound which had called it forth.

"He is so happy," whispered Harry, gently; "you must forgive him;
remember he does not know."

"Yes, yes; it is better so. Dear Charley--happy, happy Charley!"

And a smile once more came over the sick man's face, which did not pass
away, for Death had frozen it there.

L'ENVOI.

Years have passed since Richard Yorke was laid in the church-yard on the
hill at Gethin, close beside his mother, whose bones Harry's pious care
had caused to be transported thither.

If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine--
If love has forc