fty times better than Helen," he said often, drawing the
dark loops of shining hair fondly through his old fingers. "Helen was a
rattle pate. Never mind--matrimony will tame her down, though the lad's
fond of her enough, and will make her a very good sort of husband, I
dare say, as husbands go. But you, little woman, with your soft
voice--you have a voice like an Aeolian harp Jennie, your deft fingers,
your apt ways--you are a treasure to a cross old bachelor. You are a
nurse born, Jennie, child; how did I ever get along all these years
without you?"

He meant it, every word, and a moonlight sort of smile, sweet and
grateful, if very sad, thanked him. Once she had lifted his hand to her
lips and kissed it, passionate tears filling her eyes.

"I a treasure! Oh, Mr. Darcy! You do not know what you say. I am a
wretch--a wretch unworthy of your kindness and trust. But one day I
shall tell you all."

He had wondered a little what she meant. "Tell him all!" What could the
child have to tell? She was so young--so pathetically young to be
widowed--what story lay in her life? The very oldest of all old stories,
no doubt--a beloved one lost. He sighed as he thought it, bald-headed,
hoary patriarch that he was. _He_ had had his story and his day. The day
had ended, the story was read, the book closed and put away, years and
years and years ago. In the gallant and golden days of his youth he had
met and loved a girl, and been (as he believed, as she told him,) loved
in return. He left her to make a home and a competence--he was no
millionaire in those far-off days, save in happiness--to return in a
year and marry her. Eight months after there came to him his letters,
his picture, his ring. A richer knight had entered the lists, and the
lady was borne off no unwilling captive. A commonplace, every-day
story--nothing new at all.

He took his punishment like a man, in brave silence, and the world went
on, and years and riches and honors came, and a man's life was spoiled
forever, that was all. As he recalls it, old, white haired, half
paralyzed, now in the twilight of seventy odd years, he can remember
with curious vividness how brightly the July sun shone down on the hot
white pavement of the streets below, the cries of the children at play,
the quivering glare of the blazing noontide, as he sat in his office and
read the words that renounced him. Twenty-seven years ago, but the
picture was engraven on Hugh Darcy's brain, never t