ould place any
weight on what a man said in delirium, and I only mention the fact to
let you see exactly on what ground I stand with you."

"Can you give me an idea--of the thing I raved about?"

"Chiefly about a girl called Alo, not your wife, I should judge--who was
killed."

At that he spoke in a cheerless voice: "Marmion, I will tell you all the
story some day; but not now. I hoped that I had been able to bury it,
even in memory, but I was wrong. Some things--such things--never die.
They stay; and in our cheerfulest, most peaceful moments confront us,
and mock the new life we are leading. There is no refuge from memory and
remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with
or without repentance." He turned again from me and set a sombre face
towards the ravine. "Roscoe," I said, taking his arm, "I cannot believe
that you have any sin on your conscience so dark that it is not wiped
out now."

"God bless you for your confidence. But there is one woman who, I fear,
could, if she would, disgrace me before the world. You understand," he
added, "that there are things we repent of which cannot be repaired. One
thinks a sin is dead, and starts upon a new life, locking up the past,
not deceitfully, but believing that the book is closed, and that no
good can come of publishing it; when suddenly it all flames out like the
letters in Faust's book of conjurations."

"Wait," I said. "You need not tell me more, you must not--now; not until
there is any danger. Keep your secret. If the woman--if THAT woman--ever
places you in danger, then tell me all. But keep it to yourself now. And
don't fret because you have had dreams."

"Well, as you wish," he replied after a long time. As he sat in silence,
I smoking hard, and he buried in thought, I heard the laughter of people
some distance below us in the hills. I guessed it to be some tourists
from the summer hotel. The voices came nearer.

A singular thought occurred to me. I looked at Roscoe. I saw that he was
brooding, and was not noticing the voices, which presently died away.
This was a relief to me. We were then silent again.

CHAPTER XII. THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME

Next day we had a picnic on the Whi-Whi River, which, rising in the far
north, comes in varied moods to join the Long Cloud River at Viking.

[Dr. Marmion, in a note of his MSS., says that he has purposely
changed the names of the rivers and towns mentioned in the second
part of