ove--of honor--let the world say what it
would.

And he knew the truth at last: too late to look into those glassy eyes
and read the secret of their long years of suffering love.

"Father," Paul whispered, and fell to his knees by the deaf ear.

Mrs. Ritson, strangely quiet, strangely calm, stepped to the opposite
side of the bed, and placed one hand on the dead man's breast.

"Paul," she said, "come here."

He rose to his feet and walked to her side.

"Lay your hand with mine, and pledge to me your solemn word never to
speak of what you have heard to-night until that great day when we three
shall stand together before the great white throne."

Paul placed his hand side by side with hers, and lifted his eyes to
heaven.

"On my father's body, by my mother's honor--never to reveal to any human
soul, by word or deed, his act or her shame--always to bear myself as
their lawful son before man, even as I am their rightful son before
God--I swear it! I swear it!"

His voice was cold and clear, but the words were scarcely uttered when
he fell to his knees again, with a subdued cry of overwrought feeling.

Mrs. Ritson staggered back, caught the curtains of the bed, and covered
her face. All was still.

Then a shuffling footfall was heard on the floor. Hugh Ritson was in the
darkened room. He lifted the shaded lamp from the table, approached the
bedside, and held the lamp with one hand above his head. The light fell
on the outstretched body of his father and the bowed head of his
brother.

_BOOK II._

THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION.

CHAPTER I.

It was late in November, and the day was dark and drear. Hoar-frost lay
on the ground. The atmosphere was pallid with haze and dense with
mystery. Gaunt specters of white mist swept across the valley and
gathered at the sides of every open door. The mountains were gone. Only
a fibrous vagueness was visible.

In an old pasture field by the bridge a man was plowing. He was an
elderly man, sturdy and stolid of figure, and clad in blue homespun.
There was nothing clerical in his garb or manner, yet he was the vicar
and school-master of the parish. His low-crowned hat was drawn deep over
his slumberous gray eyes. The mobile mouth beneath completed the
expression of gentleness and easy good-nature. It was a fine old face,
with the beauty of simplicity and the sweetness of content.

A boy in front led the horses, and whistled. The parson hummed a tune as
he tur