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“I do not question that you know what you want,” said Mr. Withers mildly,–“it is quite a characteristic of the men of this region, I infer,–nor do I deny that you may know the way of success in getting it; but that I should open the door to you–be your–I might say accomplice, in this design upon the affections of my niece–why, I don’t know how it strikes you, but”–

“It strikes me precisely as it does you,–my part of it,” said Thane impatiently. “But her part is different, as I see it. If she were sick, you would not put off the day of her recovery because neither you nor yours could cure her? Whoever can make her forget this shipwreck of her youth, heal her unhappiness, let him do so. Isn’t that right? Give him the chance to try. A man’s power in these things does not lie in his deserts. All I ask is, when other men come forward I want the same privilege. But I shall not be on the ground. When that time comes, sir, will you remember me?”

For once Mr. Withers seized the occasion for a retort; he advanced upon the enemy’s exposed position. “Yes, Mr. Thane, I will remember you,–better than you remember your friends when they are gone.”

Thane accepted the reproach as meekly as if his friendship for John Withers had been of the indubitable stuff originally that Mr. Withers had credited him with. He rather welcomed than otherwise an unmerited rebuke from that long-suffering quarter.

But though Thane was silenced as well as answered, there was conscience yet to deal with. Mr. Withers sat and meditated sorely, while the wind buffeted his gray hairs. Conscience demanded that he give up the secret of Daphne’s false mourning, which he would have defended with his life. “A silence that can harm no one.” “So long as we defraud no living person who might claim a right to know your heart.” The condition was plain; it provided for just such cases as the present. Then how could he hesitate? But he was human, and he did.

“I have gone too far, I see. Well, say no more about it,” said Thane. “Your generosity tempted me. From those who give easily much shall be asked. Forget it, sir, please. I will look out for myself, or lose her.”

“Stop a bit!” exclaimed Mr. Withers. He turned to Thane, placing his hand above his faded eyes to shade them from the glare, and looked his companion earnestly in the face. Thane sought for an umbrella, and raised it over the old gentleman’s head; it was not an easy thing to hold it steady in that wind.

“Thanks, thanks! Now I can look at you. Yes, I can look you in the eye, in more senses than one. Listen to me, Mr. Thane, and don’t mind if I am not very lucid. In speaking of the affairs of another, and a young woman, I can only deal in outlines. You will be able to surmise and hope the rest. I feel in duty bound to tell you that at the time of my son’s death there was a misunderstanding on my part which forced Miss Lewis into a false position in respect to her relations to my son. Too much was assumed by me on insufficient evidence,–a case where the wish, perhaps, was father to the thought. She hesitated at that sore time to rob me of an illusion which she saw was precious to me; she allowed me to retain my erroneous belief that my son, had he lived, would have enjoyed the blessing of her affection. As a fact, she had not given it to him,–could not have given it,–though she owns that her mind, not her heart, was wavering. Had she married him, other motives than love would have influenced her choice. So death has saved my dear boy from a cruel disappointment or a worse mistake, and her from a great danger. Had he lived, he must have had many hours of wretchedness, either with or without that dearest wish of his heart fulfilled.