you for a pupil; indeed, that was
part of it, as you no doubt have guessed. As God hears me, I learned to
love you, Richard, in those days at the rectory. You were all of a man,
and such an one as I might have hoped to be had I been born like you.
You said what you chose, and spoke from your own convictions, and catered
to no one. You did not whine when the luck went against you, but lost
like a gentleman, and thought no more of it. You had no fear of the
devil himself. Why should you? While your cousin Philip, with his
parrot talk and sneaking ways, turned my stomach. I was sick of him,
and sick of Grafton, I tell you. But dread of your uncle drove me on,
and I had debts to frighten me."

He paused. "Twas with a strange medley of emotions I looked at him. And
Dorothy, too, was leaning forward, her lips parted and her eyes riveted
upon his face.

"Oh, I am speaking the truth," he said bitterly. "And I assume no virtue
for the little justice it remains in my power to do. It is the lot of my
life that I must be false to some one always, and even now I am false to
your uncle. Yes, I am come to do justice, and 'tis a strange errand for
me. I know that estates have been restored to you by the Maryland
Legislature, Richard, and I believe in my heart that you will win this
war." Here he fetched a memorandum from his pocket. "But to make you
secure," said he, "in the year 1710, and on the 9th of March, old style,
your great-grandfather, Mr. George Carvel, drew up a document entailing
the lands of Carvel Hall. By this they legally pass to you."

"The family settlement Mr. Swain suspected!" I exclaimed.

"Just so," he answered.

"And what am I to pay for this information?" I asked.

Hardly were the words spoken, when Dorothy ran to my bedside, and seizing
my hand, faced him.

"He--he is not well, Mr. Allen," she cried.

The rector had risen, and stood gazing down at us with the whole of his
life written on his face. That look was fearful to see, and all of hell
was expressed therein. For what is hell if it is not hope dead and
buried, and galling regret for what might have been? With mine own great
happiness so contrasted against his torture, my heart melted.

"I am not well, indeed, Mr. Allen," I said. "God knows how hard it is
for me to forgive, but I forgive you this night."

One brief instant he stared at me, and then tumbled suddenly down into
his chair, his head falling forward on his arms. And the long sobs by