The words of the 107th Psalm came to my lips:  “Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men.”

He put his hands over his face, and said presently, in a smothered voice, “I had just begun to pray for the old man.”

I could not say any more for happy tears, less for “the captive exile” than for my own Harry.

Soon he looked up again, and said with a smile, “I shan’t fight against it any longer.”

“I don’t think it is of any use,” was my answer, as if pretending to condole; and where another man would have uttered a fervent rhapsody, he exclaimed, “Lovely little darling!”

But after another interval he said, “I don’t mean to speak of it till I come back.”  And on my question, “From London?” “No, from Boola Boola.”

He had evidently debated the whole matter during his midnight tramps, and had made up his mind, as he explained, that it would be cruel to Viola to touch the chord which would disclose her feelings to herself.  She was a mere child, and if her fancy were touched, as he scarcely allowed himself to believe, it was hard to lay fully before her those dark pages in his history which she must know before she could be allowed to give herself to him.  Besides, her mother and uncle would, even if there were nothing else amiss, be sure to oppose a match with one who had nothing in England but his cousin’s agency and a few shares in the potteries; and though Harold had plenty of wealth at Boola Boola, it was certain that he should not have a moment’s audience from the elders unless he could show its amount in property in England.  If things went well, he would buy a piece of Neme Heath, reclaim it, and build a house on it; or, perhaps, an estate in Ireland, near Killy Marey, where the people had gained his heart.  Till, however, he could show that he had handsome means in a form tangible to Lady Diana, to express his affection would only be exposing Viola to displeasure and persecution.  Moreover, he added, his character was not cleared up as much as was even possible.  He had told Lord Erymanth the entire truth, and had been believed, but it was quite probable that even that truth might divide for ever between him and Viola, and those other stories of the Stympsons both cousins had, of course, flatly denied, but had never been able otherwise to confute.

I asked whether it had ever struck him that it was possible that the deeds of Henry Alison might have been charged on his head.  “Yes,” he said, and he thought that if he could trace this out, with Dermot as a witness, the authorities might be satisfied so far as to take him for what he was, instead of for what he had never been.  But the perception of the storm of opposition which speaking at present would provoke, made me allow that he was as wise as generous in sparing Viola till his return, since I knew her too well to fear that her heart would be given away in the meantime.  Still I did hint, “Might not she feel your going away without saying anything?”