“Lucy, you are my sister.  I love you as that—­but my wife you never can be—­” yes; he would have to tell her that.  But why had this father of his let him and Lucy go on as they had?  He had told his father the secret of his life.  He remembered distinctly his father’s actions how he had even called him “son,” which he had thought at the time was for Lucy’s sake.  Knowing him and Lucy to be brother and sister, why had he permitted them to form ties such as had been formed?  Was it a plot on his father’s part to again bring misery to human souls, to make to suffer those that were of his own flesh and blood?  No, no; that was impossible.  Surely he was not that kind of man.

More clearly now the panorama of his life came before him.  Where was the Lord in all this?  He had thought the Lord had led his steps wonderfully to so meet one who made his life supremely happy—­but now—­the darkness and the despair of soul came again—­was this not a hideous nightmare?  The day would bring light and peace.

Towards morning, Chester dozed fitfully, and at last when he awoke the day was well advanced.  He and Uncle Gilbert had been in the park—­uncle in reality now.  Yes; it all came to him again.  It had been no dream.

Chester got up, soused himself in cold water, then as he was dressing said to himself.  “Well, what’s to be done?  I must make this thing sure one way or another.”  Perhaps there may be a mistake, though he could not understand how.  He would go direct to Thomas Strong and ask him.

He had no appetite for breakfast, so he ate none.  As early as he thought wise, he set out.  How should he meet Lucy?  What could he say?  If he could only evade her.

No; Lucy was watching for him, with a worried expression on her face, which deepened when she saw Chester’s.

“I must see your father,” he said with no effort to even take her hand.

“Papa is not any better, I fear.”

“But I must see him.  Where is Uncle Gilbert?”

“Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please.”

Lucy returned, and Uncle Gilbert met Chester in the hall.

“He is very nervous again this morning, and I don’t think you ought to excite him,” explained the brother.

“I must see him—­just for a minute.  I’ll not engage him in any extended conversation.”

“That you cannot do as he can hardly speak.  His trouble affects him in that way.”

“Let me see him just for a moment—­alone, please.  Is he awake?”

“Oh yes; he’s not that bad.  Go in a moment, then, but be careful.”

Chester passed in where the minister sat in an arm chair, propped up with pillows, signs of Lucy’s tender care.  As Chester entered, the man smiled and reached out his hand.  The resentment in the young man’s heart vanished, when he saw the yearning in the suffering man’s face.  Yet he stood for some time rooted to the spot, looking at the man who was no doubt his father.  Every