“How do you do, Governor?  I must ask pardon for calling so late, but—­”

“Not at all.  How can I be of use to you?”

“Why, in no way whatever.  Don’t suppose that every one who calls to see you has an office to seek or an ax to grind.  Though, I suppose, most of them have,” said the visitor, as he seated himself.

Rothsay dropped into a chair, and forced himself to talk to the young sailor.

“Just in from a voyage, Ross?”

“No; just going out, Governor.”

Rothsay smiled at this premature bestowal of the high official title, but did not set the matter right.  It was of too little importance.

“I was going to explain, Governor, that I was just passing through the city on my way to Norfolk, from which my ship is to sail to-morrow.  So I had to take the midnight train.  But I could not go without trying for a chance to see and shake hands with you and congratulate you.”

“You are very kind, Ross.  I thank you,” said Rothsay, somewhat wearily.

“You’re not looking well, Governor.  I suppose all this ’fuss and feathers’ is about as harassing as a stormy sea voyage.  Well, I will not keep you up long.  I should have been here earlier, only I went first to the hotel to inquire for you, and there I learned that you were here in old Rockharrt’s house, and had married his granddaughter.  Congratulate you again, Governor.  Not many men have had such a double triumph as you.  She is a splendidly beautiful woman.  I saw her once in Washington City, at the President’s reception.  She was the greatest belle in the place.  That reminds me that I must not keep you away from her ladyship.  This is only hail and farewell.  Good night.  I declare, Rothsay, you look quite worn out.  Don’t see any other visitor to-night, in case there should be another fool besides myself come to worry you at this hour.  Now good-by,” said the visitor, rising and offering his hand.

“Good-by, Ross.  I wish you a pleasant and prosperous voyage,” said Rothsay, rising to shake hands with his visitor.

He followed the young sailor to the hall, and seeing nothing of the porter, he let the visitor out and locked the door after him.

Then he returned to the drawing room.  Holding his head between his hands he walked slowly up and down the floor—­up and down the floor—­up and down—­many times.

“This is weakness,” he muttered, “to be thinking of myself when I should think only of her and the long life before her, which might be so joyous but for me—­but for me!  Dear one who, in her tender childhood, pitied the orphan boy, and with patient, painstaking earnestness taught him to read and write, and gave him the first impulse and inspiration to a higher life.  And now she would give her life to me.  And for all the good she has done me all her days, for all the blessings she has brought me, shall I blight her happiness?  Shall I make her this black return?  No, no.  Better that I should pass forever out of her life—­pass forever out of sight—­forever out of this world—­than live to make her suffer.  Make her suffer?  I?  Oh, no!  Let fame, life, honors, all go down, so that she is saved—­so that she is made happy.”