descend the steps and then turn northward.

"I was sure of it," he whispered. "There is more in this affair than
meets the ear, but I like the young man, and why should I rake among
the ashes of the past? Which of us would care for an investigation of
that kind?" Then he sat down before his fire and mentally followed
Roland to the bare loneliness of that poor home where death and the
mother sat together.

For once Roland feared to call, "Denasia!" He hesitated at the foot of
the narrow stair and then went softly to the door. All within was
still as the grave, but a glimmer of pale light came from under the
ill-fitting door. He might be mistaken in the room, but he resolved
to try. He turned the handle and there was an instant movement. He
went forward and Denasia stood erect, facing him. She made no sound or
sign of either anger, or astonishment, or affection. All her being was
concentrated on the clay-cold image of humanity lying so strangely
still that it filled the whole place with its majesty of silence.

He closed the door softly and said "Denasia! Oh, Denasia!"

She did not answer him, but sinking on her knees by the child, began
to sob with a passionate grief that shook her frail form as a tree is
shaken by a tempest.

"My dearest! My wife! Forgive me! Forgive me! I thought you were in
St. Penfer. As God lives, I believed you were with your mother. I
intended to come to you, I did, indeed! Denasia, speak to me. I will
never leave you again--never! We will go back to England together. I
will make you a home there. I will love and cherish you for ever!
Forgive me, dear! I am sorry! I am ashamed of myself! I hate myself! I
do not wonder you hate me also."

"No, no! I do not hate you, Roland. I am lost in sorrow. I cannot
either love or hate."

"Let me bear the sorrow with you, coward, villain that I am!"

"You did not mean to be either. You were tired of misery--men do tire.
I would have tired, too, only for my baby. Oh, Roland! Roland! Roland!
my love, my husband!"

Then--ah, then. No one can put into mere common words the great
mystery of forgiveness. It is not in words. Heart beat against heart,
eyes gazed into eyes, souls met upon clinging lips, and the sweet
compact of married love was renewed in the clasping of their
long-parted hands. They sat down together and spoke in soft, sad
voices of the great mistakes of the past. Until the midnight hour they
wept and talked together, and then Denasia said: