d rebel?"

They were hurtful words to Sir Richard--the poor fanatic whose mind was
all unsound on this one point, who had lived in contemplation of his
vengeance as a fasting monk lives through Lent in contemplation of the
Easter plenty. The lines of sorrow deepened in his face.

"Justin," he said slowly, "you forget one thing. Honor is to be used
with men of honor; but he who allows his honor to stand a barrier
between himself and the man who has wronged him by dishonor, is no
better than a fool. You speak of yourself; you think of yourself. And
what of me, Justin? The things you say of yourself apply in a like
degree--nay, even more--to me."

"Ah, but you are not his son. Oh, believe me, I speak not hastily or
lightly. I have been torn this way and that in these past days, until
at moments the burden has been heavier than I could bear. Once, for
a little while, I thought I could do all and more than you expect of
me--the moment, indeed, in which I took the first step, and delivered
him the letter. But it was a moment of wild heat. I cooled, and
reflection followed, and since then, because so much was done, I have
not known an instant's peace of mind; I have endeavored to forget the
position in which I am placed; but I have failed. I cannot. And if I go
through with this thing, I shall not know another hour in life that is
not poisoned by remorse."

"Remorse?" echoed Sir Richard, between consternation and anger.
"Remorse?" He laughed bitterly. "What ails thee, boy? Do you pretend
that Lord Ostermore should go unpunished? Do you go so far as that?"

"Not so. He has made others suffer, and it is just--as we understand
justice--that he should suffer in his turn. Though, when all is said, he
is but a poor egotist, too dull-witted to understand the full vileness
of his sin. He is suffering, as it is--cursed in his son; for 'the
father of a fool hath no joy.' He hates this son of his, and his son
despises him. His wife is a shrew, a termagant, who embitters every hour
of his existence. Thus he drags out his life, unloving and unloved, a
thing to evoke pity."

"Pity?" cried Sir Richard in a voice of thunder. "Pity? Ha! As I've a
soul, Justin, he shall be more pitiful yet ere I have done with him."

"Be it so, then. But--if you love me--find some other hand to do the
work."

"If I love you, Justin?" echoed the other, and his voice softened, his
eyes looked reproachfully upon his adoptive child. "Needs there an 'if'
t