hurch;
his Pharisaical relations with his people; his utter misunderstanding
of their needs. All this proved poignant enough to force the big
drops to his forehead.... There were other aspects of himself at
which he scarcely dared look in his utter abasement of spirit; those
dark hieroglyphics of the beast-self which appear on the whitest
soul. He had supposed himself pure and saintly because, forsooth, he
had concealed the arena of these primal passions beneath the surface
of this outward life, chaining them there like leashed tigers in the
dark.... Two faces of women appeared to be looking on, while he
strove to unravel the snarl of his self-knowledge. Lydia's unworldly
face, wearing a faint nimbus of unimagined self-immolation, and
Fanny's--full of love and solicitude, the face which he had almost
determined to forget.

He was going to Lydia. Every newly awakened instinct of his manhood
bade him go.

She came to him at once, and without pretense of concealment began to
speak of her father. She trembled a little as she asked:

"He told you who he was?"

Without waiting for his answer she gravely corrected herself.

"I should have said, who _we_ are."

She smiled a faint apology:

"I have always been called Lydia Orr; it was my mother's name. I was
adopted into my uncle's family, after father--went to prison."

Her blue eyes met his pitying gaze without evasion.

"I am glad you know," she said. "I think I shall be glad--to have
every one know. I meant to tell them all, at first. But when I
found--"

"I know," he said in a low voice.

Then because as yet he had said nothing to comfort her, or himself;
and because every word that came bubbling to the surface appeared
banal and inadequate, he continued silent, gazing at her and
marveling at her perfect serenity--her absolute poise.

"It will be a relief," she sighed, "When every one knows. He dislikes
to be watched. I have been afraid--I could not bear to have him know
how they hate him."

"Perhaps," he forced himself to say, "they will not hate him, when
they know how you-- Lydia, you are wonderful!"

She looked up startled and put out her hand as if to prevent him from
speaking further.

But the words came in a torrent now:

"How you must despise me! I despise myself. I am not worthy, Lydia;
but if you can care--"

"Stop!" she said softly, as if she would lay the compelling finger of
silence upon his lips. "I told you I was not like other women.