ore support than the soft velvet of the
portiere could afford.

"Well, as you seem bent on supporting a most unworthy object," says Sir
Christopher, "I shall pension Slyme, and send him adrift to drink
himself to death as soon as suits him."

"Why do that?" says Fabian, as quietly as ever, but with all the
determination that characterizes his every word and action. "This house
is large, and can hide him somewhere. Besides, he is accustomed to it,
and would probably feel lost elsewhere. He has been here for the third
of a lifetime--a long, _long_ time." (He sighs again. Is he bringing to
mind the terrible length of the days that have made up the sum of the
last five years of his life?) "Give him two rooms in the West wing, it
is seldom used, and give him to understand he must remain there; but do
not cast him out now that he is old and helpless."

At this last gentle mark of thoughtfulness on Fabian's part the figure
in the doorway loses all self-control. With a stifled cry he flings his
arms above his head, and staggers away down the corridor outside to his
own den.

"What was that?" asks Sir Christopher, quickly; the smothered cry had
reached his ears.

"What? I heard nothing," says Fabian, looking up.

"The storm, perhaps," says his uncle, absently. Then, after a pause,
"Why do you so strongly espouse this man's cause, Fabian?"

"Because from my soul I pity him. He has had many things of late to try
him. The death of his son a year ago, upon whom every thought of his
heart was centered, was a terrible blow, and then this wretched passion
for strong drink having first degraded, has, of course, finished by
embittering his nature. I do not blame him. He has known much
misfortune."

Sir Christopher, going up to him, places his hands upon the young man's
shoulder and gazes earnestly, with love unutterable, in his eyes. His
own are full of tears.

"No misfortune, however heavy, can embitter a _noble_ nature," he says,
gently. "One knows that when one knows _you_. For your sake,
Fabian--because you ask it--Slyme shall remain."

* * * * *

It grows towards evening, and still the rain descends in torrents. Small
rivers are running on the gravel-walks outside, the snow-drops and
crocuses are all dead or dying, crushed and broken by the cruel wind.

Down below in the bay the sea has risen, and with a roaring sound rushes
inland to dash itself against the rocks. Now and then a flash o