at he was about, brought on an
infirmity which no skill could cure, and is now a grumbling invalid, at
one or another of the German spas. I mention it partly because many
preferred this man to Faber on the ground that he went to church every
Sunday, and always shook his head at the other's atheism.

Faber wrote a kind, respectful letter, somewhat injured in tone, to the
minister, saying he was much concerned to hear that he was not so well,
and expressing his apprehension that he himself had been in some measure
the cause of his relapse. He begged leave to assure him that he
perfectly recognized the absolute superiority of Mr. Drake's claim to
the child. He had never dreamed of asserting any right in her, except so
much as was implied in the acknowledgment of his duty to restore the
expense which his wrong and neglect had caused her true father; beyond
that he well knew he could make no return save in gratitude; but if he
might, for the very partial easing of his conscience, be permitted to
supply the means of the child's education, he was ready to sign an
agreement that all else connected with it should be left entirely to Mr.
Drake. He begged to be allowed to see her sometimes, for, long ere a
suspicion had crossed his mind that she was his, the child was already
dear to him. He was certain that her mother would have much preferred
Mr. Drake's influence to his own, and for her sake also, he would be
careful to disturb nothing. But he hoped Mr. Drake would remember that,
however unworthy, he was still her father.

The minister was touched by the letter, moved also in the hope that an
arrow from the quiver of truth had found in the doctor a vulnerable
spot. He answered that he should be welcome to see the child when he
would; and that she should go to him when he pleased. He must promise,
however, as the honest man every body knew him to be, not to teach her
there was no God, or lead her to despise the instructions she received
at home.

The word _honest_ was to Faber like a blow. He had come to the painful
conclusion that he was neither honest man nor gentleman. Doubtless he
would have knocked any one down who told him so, but then who had the
right to take with him the liberties of a conscience? Pure love only, I
suspect, can do that without wrong. He would not try less to be honest
in the time to come, but he had never been, and could no more ever feel
honest. It did not matter much. What was there worth any effort