“Are you Effie Carr?”

The question was useless to one who was already lying back in her chair in a state of unconsciousness, from which she recovered only to open her eyes and avert them, and shut them and open them again, like the victim of epilepsy.

“And do you fear me?” said the excited man, as he took her in his strong arms and stared wildly into her face; “I have more reason to fear you, whom I ruined,” he continued.  “Ay, brought within the verge of the gallows.  I know it all, Effie.  Open your eyes, dear soul, and smile once more upon me.  Nay, I have known it for years, during which remorse has scourged me through the world.  Look up, dear Effie, while I tell you I could bear the agony no longer; and now opportunity favours the wretched penitent, for my father is dead, and I am not only my own master, but master of Kelton, of which you once heard me speak.  Will you not look up yet, dear Effie?  I come to make amends to you, not by wealth merely, but to offer you again that love I once bore to you, and still bear.  Another such look, dear—­it is oil to my parched spirit.  You are to consent to be my wife; the very smallest boon I dare offer.”

During which strange rambling speech Effie was partly insensible; yet she heard enough to afford her clouded mind a glimpse of her condition, and of the meaning of what was said to her.  For a time she kept staring into his face as if she had doubts of his real personality; nor could she find words to express even those more collected thoughts that began to gather into form.

“Robert Stormonth,” at length she said, calmly, “and have you suffered too?  Oh, this is more wonderful to me than a’ the rest o’ these wonderful things.”

“As no man ever suffered, dear Effie,” he answered.  “I was on the eve of coming to you, when a friend I retained here wrote me to London of your marriage with the man who saved you from the fate into which I precipitated you.  How I envied that man who offered to die for you!  He seemed to take from me my only means of reparation; nay, my only chance of happiness.  But he is dead.  Heaven give peace to so noble a spirit!  And now you are mine.  It is mercy I come to seek in the first instance; the love—­if that, after all that is past, is indeed possible—­I will take my chance of that.”

“Robert,” cried the now weeping woman, “if that love had been aince less, what misery I would have been spared!  Ay, and my father, and mother, and poor George Lindsay, a’ helped awa to the grave by my crime, for it stuck to us to the end.”  And she buried her head in his bosom, sobbing piteously.

“My crime, dear Effie, not yours,” said he.  “It was you who saved my life; and if Heaven has a kindlier part than another for those who err by the fault of others, it will be reserved for one who made a sacrifice of love.  But we have, I hope, something to enjoy before you go there, and as yet I have not got your forgiveness.”