as put on honour, what could we
do? But now it is all changed. Since Herbert's discovery he need
not be a banished man any more." And Julius told Jenny the manner
of the discovery. She listened, evidently gathering all in, and
then she asked: "And what have you done?"

"Nothing as yet."

"Nothing! while there is this blot on Archie's name, and he is
living in exile, and that Moy is revelling in prosperity. Nothing!
Why don't you publish it to every one?"

"My dear Jenny, I have only known it a week, and I have not been
able to find out where Mr. Moy is."

"What, to have him taken up?"

"Taken up, no; I don't imagine he could be prosecuted after this
length of time and on this kind of evidence. No, to give him
warning."

"Warning? To flee away, and never clear Archie! What are you
about, Julius? He ought to be exposed at once, if he cannot be made
to suffer otherwise."

"Nay, Jenny, that would be hard measure."

"Hard measure!" she interrupted; "what has my innocent Archie had?"

"Think of the old man, his wife and daughter, Jenny."

"She's a Proudfoot.--And that girl the scandal of the country! You
want to sacrifice Archie to them, Julius?"

"You are tired and shaken, Jenny, or you would see that all I want
to do is to act with common consideration and honour."

She interrupted again. "What honour do you mean? You are not
making it a secret of the confessional?"

"You are misunderstanding me, Joanna," Julius gently said.
"Herbert's vigil spared me from that difficulty, but--"

"Then you would have sacrificed Archie to this imaginary--"

"Hush, Jenny! I fear he is wandering again. Alas! it is the sad
old refrain!"

As they came to the door together, Herbert's voice, under that
strange change which wandering brings, was heard muttering, "Give an
account of thy stewardship, for thou mayest be no longer steward."
And Mrs. Cranstoun received them, with her head shaking, and tearful
eyes. "It has come on again, sir; I was afraid it would be too much
for him."

Herbert's prayer had been granted, inasmuch as the horrible ravings
that he feared repeating never passed his lips. If he had gone down
to the smoke of Tartarus to restore his sister's lover, none of its
blacks were cleaning to him; but whether conscious or wandering, the
one thought of his wasted year seemed to be crushing him. It was a
curious contrast between poor Mr. Fuller's absence of regret for a
quarter of a century's su