dream. There seemed
some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh
features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with
a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly
pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark
labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had
ever been any. There was a vague apprehension about him lest he should
discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied,
even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal
of secrecy.

They had not far to go, for Canon Pascal turned aside into a little
square, open to the black November sky, and stopping at a door in the
gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. They entered a narrow
passage, and Canon Pascal turned at once to his study, which was close
by. As he pushed open the door, he said, "Go in, my friend; I will be
with you in a moment."

Jean Merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling.
There was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no
longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the
figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head
resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. It was a figure familiar to
him in his old life--that life which lay on the other side of Roland
Sefton's grave. He had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft
brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a
thousand times in old Marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the
red firelight as she was sitting now. All the intervening years were
swept away in an instant--his bitter anguish and unavailing
repentance--the long solitude and gnawing remorse--all was swept clean
away from his mind. He felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood
come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet
keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. Even his voice caught
back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the
threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes.
"Phebe!" he cried; "little Phebe Marlowe!"

The cry startled Phebe, but she did not move. It was the voice of one
long since dead that rang in her ears--dead, and faithfully mourned
over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its
beating. Roland Sefton's voice! She did not doubt it or mistake it. The
c