ld man, and it will probably be for ever."

Then she gave him her hand, and gradually lifted her eyes to his
face. "Yes," she said; "it will be for ever. There will be no coming
back for me."

"Nay, nay; we will not say that. That's as may be hereafter. But it
will not be at once. It had better not be quite at once. Edith tells
me that you go on Thursday."

"Yes, sir; we go on Thursday."

She had still allowed her hand to remain in his, but now she withdrew
it, and asked him to sit down. "Lucius is not here," she said. "He
never remains at home after breakfast. He has much to settle as to
our journey; and then he has his lawyers to see."

Sir Peregrine had not at all wished to see Lucius Mason, but he did
not say so. "You will give him my regards," he said, "and tell him
that I trust that he may prosper."

"Thank you. I will do so. It is very kind of you to think of him."

"I have always thought highly of him as an excellent young man."

"And he is excellent. Where is there any one who could suffer without
a word as he suffers? No complaint ever comes from him; and yet--I
have ruined him."

"No, no. He has his youth, his intellect, and his education. If such
a one as he cannot earn his bread in the world--ay, and more than
his bread--who can do so? Nothing ruins a young man but ignorance,
idleness, and depravity."

"Nothing;--unless those of whom he should be proud disgrace him
before the eyes of the world. Sir Peregrine, I sometimes wonder at my
own calmness. I wonder that I can live. But, believe me, that never
for a moment do I forget what I have done. I would have poured out
for him my blood like water, if it would have served him; but instead
of that I have given him cause to curse me till the day of his death.
Though I still live, and eat, and sleep, I think of that always. The
remembrance is never away from me. They bid those who repent put on
sackcloth, and cover themselves with ashes. That is my sackcloth, and
it is very sore. Those thoughts are ashes to me, and they are very
bitter between my teeth."

He did not know with what words to comfort her. It all was as she
said, and he could not bid her even try to free herself from that
sackcloth and from those ashes. It must be so. Were it not so with
her, she would not have been in any degree worthy of that love which
he felt for her. "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," he said.

"Yes," she said, "for the shorn lamb--" And then she was silent