ry. He asked me to say that his last words to you were these:
_Amate da cui male aveste_--Love those from whom ye have had evil."

He looked at her compassionately as he spoke, wondering, no doubt, how
great the evil had been.

"Can I go to him?" asked Brigit; "where is he?"

"Where he died--in his room at the hotel."

"I will go with you," said Pensee. She held Brigit's hand, and exchanged
a long glance with Father Foster.

"Did you say," she asked, "that he left any letters or papers?"

"He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one letter addressed to
you. He wished me to say, in the presence of Mrs. Parflete, that this
had reference to some false report about her visiting Mr. Orange's
lodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to Vigo Street, and he did
not know who she was. One thing, however, he did know: he had never seen
her before."

Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, where she first
halted when she entered the room.

"Did he die in pain?" she asked.

"I am afraid he suffered greatly."

"Was his mind at peace?"

"I believe so--from my heart."

"He had less to fear from God than man."

"The justice of God is severe," said the priest, "but He can never make
mistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we
commit in judging others--perhaps in judging ourselves."

"The carriage is at the door," whispered Pensee, touching Brigit's arm.
"Shall we go?"

Nothing was said during the drive to the hotel near Covent Garden.
Brigit sat with closed eyes and folded hands while Lady Fitz Rewes, lost
in thought, stared out of the window. At last the horses stopped.

"This is the place," said Father Foster.

A large gas-lamp hung over the entrance, and two Swiss waiters, with
forced solemnity, ushered the party through the hall and up the
staircase. They tapped at a door, listened, from force of habit, for an
answer which never came, and then turned the handle. Parflete's bed had
been moved to the centre of the room. There was a table covered with a
white cloth, on which four candles burnt. By the window there was a
chair littered with illustrated newspapers.

"The nurse has just gone down to his supper," explained one of the
waiters, "but _le mort est bien convenable_."

The dead man had been dressed in a rose-silk shirt embroidered with
forget-me-nots. Upon his crossed arms lay a small ivory crucifix. In
place of his wig he wore a black velvet skull-cap. The fa