ieces, and so annihilate him from the face of the earth; but before
he can touch him, a slight body throws itself between him and Slyme, and
two small, white hands are laid upon his breast. These little hands,
small and powerless as they are, yet have strength to force him
backwards.

"Think," says Portia, in a painful whisper. "Think! Fabian, you would
not harm that old man."

"My dear fellow, don't touch him," says Dicky Browne. "Don't. In your
present frame of mind a gentle push of yours would be his death."

"Death!" says old Slyme, in such a strange voice that instinctively they
all listen to him. "It has no terrors for me." He has raised his head
from his hands, and is now gazing again at Fabian, as though fascinated,
making a wretched and withal a piteous picture, as his thin white locks
stream behind him. "What have I to live for?" he cries, miserably. "The
boy I slaved for, sinned for, for whom I ruined you and my own soul, is
dead, cold in his grave. Have pity on me, therefore, and send me where I
may rejoin him."

Either the excitement of his confession, or the nervous dread of the
result of it, has proved too much for him; because just as the last word
passes his lips, he flings his arms wildly into the air, and, with a
muffled cry, falls prone, a senseless mass, upon the ground.

When they lift him, they find clutched in his hand a written statement
of all he has confessed so vaguely. They are very gentle in their
treatment of him, but when he has recovered consciousness and has been
carried by the servants to his own room, it must be acknowledged that
they all breathe more freely.

Sir Christopher is crying like a child, and so is Dicky Browne. The
tears are literally running in little rivulets all down Dicky's plump
cheeks, but he is not in the least ashamed of them--as indeed, why
should he be? As in between his sobs he insists on telling everybody he
is so glad--so awfully glad, his apparent grief, had they been in the
mood for it, would have struck them all as being extremely comic.

The effect of their tears upon the women has the most desirable result.
It first surprises, and then soothes them inexpressibly. It leaves
indeed a new field entirely open to them. Instead of being petted, they
can pet.

Julia instantly undertakes Dicky, who doesn't quite like it; Dulce
appropriates Sir Christopher, who likes it very much.

Fabian, now that his one burst of passion is at an end, is again
strange