t
prison for a term of imprisonment, Felicita's life, and the life of her
children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and
infamy of it. There could have been no love between you and Felix."

"It was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the
grave again almost gladly. "Does Felix know this? But I am sure he does
not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her
father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. He could
not be guilty of a crime against any one."

"I believe in Felix; I love him dearly," her father said, "but if I had
known of this I do not think I could have brought him up in my own home,
with my own boys and girls. God knows it would have been a difficult
point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide."

"I shall not love Felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less.
If all his forefathers had been bad men I should be sure still that he
was good. I never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish.
My poor Felix! Oh, father! I shall love him more than ever now I know
there is something in his life that needs pity. When he knows it he will
come to me for comfort; and I will comfort him. His father shall hear me
promise it by this grave here. I will never, never visit Roland
Sefton's sin on his son; I will never in my heart think of it as a thing
against him. And if all the world came to know it, I would never once
feel a moment's shame of him."

Her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at
the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. Canon Pascal laid
his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might
be alone with the grave, and God.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LOWEST DEEPS.

The miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of Engelberg, with no
light save that which entered by the doorway, had been Jean Merle's
home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither
irresistibly by the grave which bore Roland Sefton's name. There was
less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. A
log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a
rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. The
floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually
stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood,
and the dust which fell from his busy grave