always remember with grateful regard the lady who honored me by promising to be my wife, but I shall be glad to know that she is in a safe position under the care of a worthier man than myself. That matter is at rest forever.  Now as to using the information you have placed in my power, you ask what is impossible.  First, it is evident that the late Mr. Liddell fully intended to alter his will in your favor.  It would have been most unjust to have bestowed his fortune to me.  I am extremely glad it is yours.”

“But,” again interrupted Katherine, “why should you not share it at least?  Why should you be penniless while I am rich with what is not mine?”

“I shall not be absolutely penniless,” said Errington, smiling gravely.  “Even if I were,” he continued, with unusual animation, “do you think me capable of rebuilding my fortune on your disgrace? or of inventing some elaborate lie to account for the possession of that unlucky will?  No amount of riches could repay me for either.  I dare say the temptation you describe was irresistible to a nature like yours, and I dare say too the punishment of your self-condemnation is bitter enough.  Now you must reflect that your duty is to keep the secret to which you have bound yourself.  If you raise the veil which must always hide the true facts of your succession, you would create great unhappiness and confusion in Colonel Ormonde’s family, and injure the innocent woman whom he would never have married had he not been sure you would provide for the boys.  It would so cruel to break up a home merely to indulge a morbid desire for atonement.  No, Miss Liddell.  Be guided by me; accept the life you have brought upon yourself. I, the only one who has a right to do it, willingly resign what ought to have been yours without your unfortunately illegal act.  Your secret is perfectly safe with me.  Time will heal the wounds you have inflicted on yourself and enable you to forget.  Leave this ill-omened document with me; it is safer than in your hands.  Indeed there is no use in keeping it.”

“But what—­what will become of you?” she asked, with strange familiarity, the outcome of strong excitement which carried her over all conventional limits.

“Oh, I have had some training in the world both of men and books, and I hope to be able to keep the wolf from the door.”

“Would you not accept part at least—­a sum of money, you know, to begin something?” asked Katherine, her voice quivering, her nerves relaxing from their high tension, and feeling utterly beaten, her high resolves of sacrifice and renunciation tumbling about her, like a house of cards, at the touch of common-sense.

“I do not think any arrangements of the kind practicable,” returned Errington, with a kind smile.  “I understand your eagerness to relieve your conscience by an act of restitution, but now you are exonerated.  I ask nothing but that you should forgive yourself, and knit up the ravelled web of your life.  The fortune ought to be yours—­is yours—­shall be yours.”