“Is that so?” said Mrs. Little.  “I was not aware of that.”

“I have just learned it, accidentally, from the son of the solicitor Raby went to that fatal night.”

A tear stole down Mrs. Little’s cheek.

“Now, remember, you are not a woman, but a brave, high-minded man.  In that character you pity poor Mr. Little, but you blame him a little because he fled from trouble, and left his wife and child in it.  To you, who are Guy Raby—­mind that, please—­it seems egotistical and weak to desert your wife and child even for the grave.” (The widow buried her face and wept.  Twenty-five years do something to withdraw the veil the heart has cast over the judgment.) “But, whatever you feel, you utter only regret, and open your arms to your sister.  She writes back in an agony, for which, being a man, you can not make all the allowance you would if you were a woman, and denounces you as her husband’s murderer, and bids you speak to her and write to her no more, and with that she goes to the Littles.  Can you blame yourself that, after all this, you wait for her to review your conduct more soberly, and to invite a reconciliation.”

Mrs. Little gave Dr. Amboyne her hand, “Bitter, but wholesome medicine!” she murmured, and then was too overcome to speak for a little while.

“Ah, my good, wise friend!” said she at last, “thick clouds seem clearing from my mind; I begin to see I was the one to blame.”

“Yes; and if Raby will be as docile as you, and put himself in your place, he will tell me he was the one to blame.  There’s no such thing as ‘the one to blame;’ there very seldom is.  You judged him as if he was a woman, he judged you as if you were a man.  Enter an obese maniac, and applies the art of arts; the misunderstanding dissolves under it, and you are in each other’s arms.  But, stop”—­and his countenance fell again a little:  “I am afraid there is a new difficulty.  Henry’s refusal to take the name of Raby and be his heir.  Raby was bitterly mortified, and I fear he blames me and my crotchets; for he has never been near me since.  To be sure you are not responsible for Henry’s act.”

“No, indeed; for, between you and me, it mortified me cruelly.  And now things have taken a turn—­in short, what with his love, and his jealousy, and this hopeless failure to make a fortune by inventing, I feel I can bring him to his senses.  I am not pleased with Grace Carden about something; but no matter, I shall call on her and show her she must side with me in earnest.  You will let my brother know I was always on his side in that matter, whatever other offense I may have given him years ago.”

“And I am on your side, too.  Your son has achieved a small independence.  Bayne can carry on the little factory, and Henry can sell or lease his patents; he can never sink to a mere dependent.  There, I throw my crotchets to the wind, and we will Raby your son, and marry him to Grace Carden.”