aintained a flow of easy and interesting conversation,
yet never approached the subject of architecture even near enough to
seem to be avoiding it. After dinner he took Westray to the library,
where he showed him some old books, and used all his art to entertain
him and set him at his ease. Westray was soothed for a moment by the
other's manner, and did his best to respond to the courtesy shown him;
but everything had lost its savour, and he knew that black Care was only
waiting for him to be alone, to make herself once more mistress of his
being.

A wind which had risen after sunset began to blow near bed-time with
unusual violence. The sudden gusts struck the library windows till they
rattled again, and puffs of smoke came out from the fireplace into the
room.

"I shall sit up for Lady Blandamer," said the host, "but I dare say you
will not be sorry to turn in;" and Westray, looking at his watch, saw
that it wanted but ten minutes of midnight.

In the hall, and on the staircase, as they went up, the wind blowing
with cold rushes made itself felt still more strongly.

"It is a wild night," Lord Blandamer said, as he stopped for a moment
before a barometer, "but I suspect that there is yet worse to come; the
glass has fallen in an extraordinary way. I hope you have left all snug
with the tower at Cullerne; this wind will not spare any weak places."

"I don't think it should do any mischief at Saint Sepulchre's," Westray
answered, half unconsciously. It seemed as though he could not
concentrate his thought even upon his work.

His bedroom was large, and chilly in spite of a bright fire. He locked
the door, and drawing an easy-chair before the hearth, sat a long while
in thought. It was the first time in his life that he had with
deliberation acted against his convictions, and there followed the
reaction and remorse inseparable from such conditions.

Is there any depression so deep as this? is there any night so dark as
this first eclipse of the soul, this _first_ conscious stilling of the
instinct for right? He had conspired to obscure truth, he had made
himself partaker in another man's wrong-doing, and, as the result, he
had lost his moral foothold, his self-respect, his self-reliance. It
was true that, even if he could, he would not have changed his decision
now, yet the weight of a guilty secret, that he must keep all his life
long, pressed heavily upon him. Something must be done to lighten this
we