ings than any other stranger. We will do what I
believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it
was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now."

"But can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "Must
you always be what you seem to be now?"

"I must always be Jean Merle," he replied. "Roland Sefton cannot return
to life; it is impossible. Let us leave her children at least the tender
memory of their mother; I can bear being unknown to them for what
remains to me of life. And we do no one any harm, you and I, by keeping
this secret."

"No, we wrong no one," she answered. "I have been thinking of it ever
since I was sure she was dead, and I counted upon you doing this. It
will save Felix and Hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her
memory fair and true for them. But you--there will be so much to give
up. They will never know that you are their father; for if we do not
tell them now, we must never, never betray it. Can you do it?"

"I gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice I can
make for them, what should withhold me, Phebe? God only knows what an
unutterable relief it would be to me if I could lay bare my whole life
to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in
simple honesty and truthfulness. But that is impossible. Not even you
can see my whole life as it has been. I must go softly all my days,
bearing my burden of secrecy."

"I too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly.

"I shall start at once for Stans," he went on, "and go to Lucerne by the
first boat in the morning. You shall give me a telegram to send from
there to Canon Pascal, and Felix will be here in less than three days. I
must return direct to Riversborough. I must not perform the last duties
to the dead; even that is denied to me."

"But Felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed Phebe, her voice
faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. A shudder of
repugnance ran through him also. Roland Sefton's grave was here, and
what would be more natural than to bury Felicita beside it?

"No, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, Phebe. She must be
brought home and buried among her own people. Promise to save her and me
from that."

"Oh, I promise it," she said; "it shall never be. You shall not have
that grief."

"If I stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more
difficult to take up my life in Riversborough unquestio