Then came the great temptation.  “When Mr. Newton said that if the will existed it would be in the bureau, but that as he had been on the point of making another, so he (Mr. Newton) hoped he had destroyed the last,” continued Katherine, “a thought darted through my brain.  Why should it be found? He no longer wished its provisions to be carried out.  I should not, in destroying or suppressing it, defeat the wishes of the dead.  I determined, if Mr. Newton asked me a direct question, I would tell him the truth; if not, I would simply be silent.  In short, I mentally tossed for the guidance of my conduct.  Silence won.  Mr. Newton asked nothing; he was too glad that everything was mine.  He has been very, very good to me.  I imagined that half my uncle’s money would go to my brother’s children, but it did not; so when I came of age I settled a third upon them.  Of course the deed of gift is now but so much waste paper, and for them I would earnestly implore you to spare a little yearly allowance for education, to prepare them to earn their own bread.  I feel sure you will do this, and I do deeply dread their being thrown on Colonel Ormonde’s charity; their lot would be very miserable.  My poor little boys!” Her voice broke, and she stopped abruptly.

Errington’s eyes dwelt upon her, almost sternly, with the deepest attention, while she spoke.  Nor did he break silence at once; he leaned back in his chair, resting one closed hand on the table before him.  At last he exclaimed:  “I wish you had not told me this!  I could not have imagined you capable of such an act.”

“And more,” said Katherine; “although I wish to make what reparation I can, had that act to be done again—­even with the anticipation of this bitter hour—­I’d do it.”

She looked straight into Errington’s eyes, her own aflame with sudden passion.  He was silent, his brow slightly knit, a puzzled expression in his face.  The natural motion of his mind was to condemn severely such a lawless sentiment, yet he could not resist thinking of those brilliant speaking eyes, nor help the conviction that he had never met a real live woman before.  It was like a scene on the stage; for demonstrative emotion always appeared theatrical to him, only it was terribly earnest this time.

“You would not say so were you calmer,” said Errington, in a curious hesitating manner.  “Why—­why did you not come and tell me your need for your uncle’s money?  Do you think I am so avaricious as to retain the fortune, or all the fortune, that ought to have been yours, when I had enough of my own?”

“How could I tell?” she cried.  “If I knew you then as I do now I should have asked you, and saved my soul alive; but what did the name of Errington convey to me?  Only the idea of a greedy enemy!  Are men so ready to cast the wealth they can claim into the lap of another?  When you spoke to me that day at Castleford I thought I should have dropped at your feet with the overpowering