ful heart with it. But what
could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power
to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if
he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in
impenetrable darkness.

At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one.

"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off
to bed. Good-by, mother."

"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile.

"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her
tenderly.

"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head,
and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her
fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some
rest before the night was passed.

Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's
door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared
not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even
to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took
possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her
shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her,
would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin
committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer
was no.

He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the
streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the
deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard.
Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment.
He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other
darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours
those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the
great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the
inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if
there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight
of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the
heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which,
however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him.

CHAPTER II.

PHEBE MARLOWE.

Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the
rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar
clearness, and with a