ld him it was
just charming, and as for religion, there was nothing under heaven like
the devotion of a handsome and clever man to a handsome and clever woman,
when he gave up all the world for her, and his body and his soul and
everything that was his. I think he saw there was something in that, for
though he said nothing, there came a wonderful light into his splendid
eyes, and I thought if he wasn't going to be a clergyman--but no matter.
So long, dear!"

IV.

John Storm was the son of Lord Storm (a peer in his own right), and
nephew of the Prime Minister of England, the Earl of Erin. Two years
before John's birth the brothers had quarrelled about a woman. It was
John's mother. She had engaged herself to the younger brother, and
afterward fallen in love with the elder one. The voice of conscience told
her that it was her duty to carry out her engagement, and she did so.
Then the voice of conscience took sides with the laws of life and told
the lovers that they must renounce each other, and they both did that as
well. But the poor girl found it easier to renounce life than love, and
after flying to religion as an escape from the conflict between conjugal
duty and elemental passion she gave birth to her child and died. She was
the daughter of a rich banker, who had come from the soil, and she had
been brought up to consider marriage distinct from love. Exchanging
wealth for title, she found death in the deal.

Her husband had never stood in any natural affinity to her. On his part,
their marriage had been a loveless and selfish union, based on the desire
for an heir that he might found a family and cancel the unfair position
of a younger son. But the sin he committed against the fundamental law,
that marriage shall be founded only in love, brought its swift revenge.

On hearing that the wife was dead, the elder brother came to attend the
funeral. The night before that event the husband felt unhappy about the
part he had played. He had given no occasion for scandal, but he had
never disguised, even from the mother of his son, the motives of his
marriage. The poor girl was gone; he had only trained himself for the
pursuit of her dowry, and the voice of love had been silent. Troubled by
such thoughts, he walked about his room all night long, and somewhere in
the first dead gray of dawn he went down to the death chamber that he
might look upon her face again. Opening the door, he heard the sound of
half-stifled s