, and infirm in purpose, his judgment had not altogether
left him. He was well aware that he would offend all social laws if
he were to do that which he contemplated, and ask the world around
him to respect as Lady Orme--as his wife, the woman who had so deeply
disgraced herself. But yet he could hardly bring himself to confess
that it was impossible. He was as a child who knows that a coveted
treasure is beyond his reach, but still covets it, still longs for
it, hoping against hope that it may yet be his own. It seemed to him
that he might yet regain his old vitality if he could wind his arm
once more about her waist, and press her to his side, and call her
his own. It would be so sweet to forgive her; to make her sure that
she was absolutely forgiven; to teach her that there was one at
least who would not bring up against her her past sin, even in his
memory. As for his grandson, the property should be abandoned to him
altogether. 'Twas thus he argued with himself; but yet, as he argued,
he knew that it could not be so.

"I was harsh to her when she told me," he said, after another
pause--"cruelly harsh."

"She does not think so."

"No. If I had spurned her from me with my foot, she would not have
thought so. She had condemned herself, and therefore I should have
spared her."

"But you did spare her. I am sure she feels that from the first to
the last your conduct to her has been more than kind."

"And I owed her more than kindness, for I loved her;--yes, I loved
her, and I do love her. Though I am a feeble old man, tottering to my
grave, yet I love her--love her as that boy loves the fair girl for
whom he longs. He will overcome it, and forget it, and some other one
as fair will take her place. But for me it is all over."

What could she say to him? In truth, it was all over,--such love
at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage.
There is no Medea's caldron from which our limbs can come out young
and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old as does
the body.

"It is not all over while we are with you," she said, caressing him.
But she knew that what she said was a subterfuge.

"Yes, yes; I have you, dearest," he answered. But he also knew that
that pretence at comfort was false and hollow.

"And she starts on Thursday," he said; "on next Thursday."

"Yes, on Thursday. It will be much better for her to be away from
London. While she is there she never ventures even in