f,
said, with deep feeling, "My poor boy, you can never be a stranger to
me. The affection of years cannot be untied in a moment. You see now
how folly glides into crime, and crime into punishment. Take this to
heart, and never again stray from the paths of honor. Lead an honorable
life; and, if you do, write to me as if I was still your father."

They retired, but Richard Bassett lingered, and hung his head.

Sir Charles wondered what this inveterate foe could have to say now.

At last Richard said, half sullenly, yet with a touch of compunction,
"Sir Charles, you have been more generous than I was. You have laid me
under an obligation."

Sir Charles bowed loftily.

"You would double that obligation if you would prevail on Lady Bassett
to keep that old folly of mine secret from my wife and daughter. I am
truly ashamed of it; and, whatever my faults may have been, they love
and respect me."

"Mr. Bassett," said Sir Charles, "my son Compton must be told that he
is my heir; but no details injurious to you shall transpire: you may
count on absolute secrecy from Lady Bassett and myself."

"Sir Charles," said Richard Bassett, faltering for a moment, "I am very
much obliged to you, and I begin to be sorry we are enemies.
Good-morning."

The agitation and terror of this scene nearly killed Lady Bassett on
the spot. She lay all that day in a state of utter prostration.

Meantime Sir Charles put this and that together, but said nothing. He
spoke cheerfully and philosophically to his wife--said it had been a
fearful blow, terrible wrench: but it was all for the best; such a son
as that would have broken his heart before long.

"Ah, but your wasted affections!" groaned Lady Bassett; and her tears
streamed at the thought.

Sir Charles sighed; but said, after a while, "Is affection ever
entirely wasted? My love for that young fool enlarged my heart. There
was a time he did me a deal of good."

But next day, having only herself to think of now, Lady Bassett could
live no longer under the load of deceit. She told Sir Charles Mary
Meyrick had deceived him. "Read this," she said, "and see what your
miserable wife has done, who loved you to madness and crime."

Sir Charles looked at her, and saw in her wasted form and her face
that, if he did read it, he should kill her; so he played the man: he
restrained himself by a mighty effort, and said, "My dear, excuse me;
but on this matter I have more faith in Mary Meyrick's exa