he best of the future which he had announced to his sister was
purged of its defiance. He would make the best of his future--yes. But
for this purpose he would injure no man or woman henceforward; he would
work with less selfishness of aim--for the good of the world at large as
well as for himself. Something seemed broken in him by that lonely hour
in the wood--some hardness, some coldness of temper was swept away. To
him perhaps Tennyson's words respecting Lancelot were applicable still--

"So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain,
Not knowing he should die a holy man."

Far enough from anything like holiness was Hubert Lepel, but a nobler
life was possible to him yet.

Florence commented that evening on his pale and wearied countenance, but
he smiled at her questions, and would not allow that anything ailed him.
He sat by her side for the greater part of the evening. It was as well,
he thought, to be chary of Enid's companionship. She was so sweet, so
frank, that she beguiled him into imprudent frankness in return. He
would not sit beside her at the piano therefore, or walk with her upon
the terrace, although she looked prettier than ever, with a new wistful
light in her blue eyes, a rose-flush upon her delicate cheeks. He knew
that she was disappointed when he did not come; no matter--the child
must not look on him as anything but a casual acquaintance who had
spoken a few rash words of compliment which it were idle to take too
seriously; and he would stay with Florence.

"Enid looks well to-night," said his sister, in her soft careless tones.
"She is a pretty little thing when in good health."

"Is she delicate?" Hubert asked, in some surprise.

"She has nervous attacks; she has had them at intervals ever since she
was nine years old." Nine years old--the date of her father's death!--as
Hubert knew. "At first we thought they were of an epileptic kind; but
the doctors say that they are purely nervous, and will cease when she is
older and stronger."

Hubert inquired no further. The subject was disagreeable to him,
inasmuch as it connected Enid's health with her parent's fate and his
sister's disastrous influence upon the family. It was always a matter of
keen regret to him that he had not been able to hinder Florence's
marriage, which she had prudently made a matter of secrecy until it was
too late for the General's friends to interfere. Her calm appropriation
of the position which she had secured