e to this world
than the next. You know, I had several long talks with him; I told you
how he interested me. Now I can piece together my conclusions.'

'Still,' urged Sidwell, 'you must inevitably regard him as ignoble--as
guilty of base deceit. I must hide nothing from you, having told so
much. Have you heard from anyone about his early life?'

'Your mother told me some old stories.'

Sidwell made an impatient gesture. In words of force and ardour, such
as never before had been at her command, she related all she knew of
Godwin's history prior to his settling at Exeter, and depicted the
mood, the impulses, which, by his own confession, had led to that
strange enterprise. Only by long exercise of an impassioned imagination
could she thus thoroughly have identified herself with a life so remote
from her own. Peak's pleading for himself was scarcely more impressive.
In listening, Sylvia understood how completely Sidwell had cast off the
beliefs for which her ordinary conversation seemed still to betray a
tenderness.

'I know,' the speaker concluded, 'that he cannot in that first hour
have come to regard me with a feeling strong enough to determine what
he then undertook. It was not I as an individual, but all of us here,
and the world we represented. Afterwards, he persuaded himself that he
had felt love for me from the beginning. And I, I tried to believe
it--because I wished it true; for his sake, and for my own. However it
was, I could not harden my heart against him. A thousand considerations
forbade me to allow him further hope; but I refused to listen--no, I
_could_ not listen. I said I would remain true to him. He went away to
take up his old pursuits, and if possible to make a position for
himself. It was to be our secret. And in spite of everything. I hoped
for the future.'

Silence followed, and Sidwell seemed to lose herself in distressful
thought.

'And now,' asked her friend, 'what has come to pass?'

'Do you know that Miss Moxey is dead?'

'I haven't heard of it.'

'She is dead, and has left Mr. Peak a fortune.--His letter of today
tells me this. And at the same time he claims my promise.'

Their eyes met. Sylvia still had the air of meditating a most
interesting problem. Impossible to decide from her countenance how she
regarded Sidwell's position.

'But why in the world,' she asked, 'should Marcella Moxey have left her
money to Mr. Peak?'

'They were friends,' was the quick reply. 'She knew