iseased imagination that he alone in the cathedral possessed
the extreme divination, enabling him to perceive the emptiness of all
these signs and symbols. He labored in a fever of mental excitement
and was only recalled to himself as his glance once more rested upon
the young girl.

He became dimly conscious that people were moving past them, and he
suddenly longed to cry out, "My child!" but he fought down the
impulse. There could be no turning back now at the eleventh hour; the
marquis was a philosopher, and did not believe that, in a twinkling of
an eye, a man may set behind all that has transpired and regard it as
naught. Something within held him from speaking to her--perhaps his
own inherent sense of the consistency of things; his appreciation of
the legitimate finale to a miserable order of circumstances! Even
pride forbade departure from long-established habit. But while this
train of thought passed through his mind, he realized she was
regarding him with clear, compassionate eyes, and he heard her voice:

"Shall we go now? The services are over."

He obeyed without question.

"Over!"

Those moments by her side would never return! They were about to part
to meet no more on earth. He leaned heavily upon her arm and his steps
were faltering. Out into the warm sunshine they passed, the light
revealing more plainly the ravages of time in his face.

"You must take a carriage," she said to the old man.

"Thank you, thank you," he replied. "Leave me here on the bench. I
shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old
man. May I not"--asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her
speak--"may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?"

"My name is Constance Carew."

He shook as with the palsy. "A good name, a good name!" he repeated.
"I remember years ago another of that name--an actress in London. A
very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and
none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You--you resemble her!
But there, don't let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are
busy, I dare say."

"Yes, I should be at rehearsal," she replied regretfully.

"At rehearsal!" he repeated. "Yes!--yes!--. But the stage is no place
for you!" he added, suddenly. "You should leave it--leave it!"

She looked at him wonderingly. "Is there nothing more I can do for
you?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Except--no, nothing!"

"You were about to ask something?" she ob