ight," he continued, "in my lonely house in the valley I was
awakened by some sound. I sat up in bed and listened. All was black
around me, and at first all was quiet too. I lay down again to sleep.
But as I touched the pillow I heard a faint murmur that seemed to come
from far away. I said to myself that it was a fancy of my mind but again
it came. Then I thought it was the wind caught in some cranny of my
house. I opened my window and leaned out. But there was no wind in the
trees. What was the noise then? The cry of a bird perhaps. Yes, it must
be that. Yet did any note of a bird have a thrill of pain in it? I
hurried on some clothes and let myself out into the garden. I would hear
that bird again. I would convince myself of its presence. But in the
garden I could hear nothing save the thin murmur of the stream that
threaded the valley. So I returned to the house, and at the door I was
greeted by a little cry from within. Miss Alston, it was the cry of my
dead child, full of pain and of eternal reproach. I shut the door,
closing myself in with my fate, and since that night I have been a
haunted man. Scarcely a day has passed since then, scarcely a night has
gone by without my hearing that appeal for help which once I
disregarded, which now I can never reply to. I fled from the valley, in
a vain hope of leaving that voice behind me. I came here. But the
child's spirit is here too. It is forever with me."

He stopped abruptly, then he added, "I can even hear it now, while I
look at you, while I touch your hand."

His burning eyes were fixed on Lily's face. His burning hand closed on
hers as if seeking assistance.

"What am I to do?" he said, and for the first time his voice broke and
failed.

"Pray!" she whispered.

"I have prayed. But God forgives only those who reverse their evil
acts. Mine can never be reversed. I can never be kind to my child to
whom I have been bitterly cruel. There is no help for me, none. Yet I
had a feeling that--that you might help me."

"If I could!" the girl cried with a blaze of sudden eagerness. Her heart
leaped up at the words, leaped up from its depth of pity for Maurice to
a height of almost fiery enthusiasm.

"But how?" he said.

Then his face hardened and grew stern.

"No," he said, "there can be no help for me, none in this world."

The drawing-room door opened and the Canon appeared.

"Miss Bigelow has not died for the thirteenth time," he said, coming up
to the fire.