ce was yellow:
the features seemed set in a defiant, ironical smile. Hardship, terror,
remorse, and physical agony had left their terrible scars upon his
countenance.

Brigit, overcome at the sight of these awful changes, fell weeping on
Pensee's shoulder.

"Thank God!" she whispered, "he has no more to fear from men."

When she grew calmer, she knelt down by the body, and told them that she
would watch there that night.

"Madness!" exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes.

"No, no! I wish to do it."

The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in her
resolve.

"He was my father's friend," she said, quietly.

They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as her
husband.

"If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay," said Pensee.

"That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot
leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for
a little while."

Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room,
and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about the
deplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, she
was very young. But Rachel--the great Rachel--made her first triumph at
seventeen.

"One doesn't like to say it," observed Pensee, "but this death seems
providential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poor
child! At last it really looks as though she might be happy--like other
people."

"Like other people," repeated the priest, mechanically.

"I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all
night. And I should like our letters--I had no time to look at them."

A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation.

"I am afraid," said Pensee, "that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully
wicked."

The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man's
intellectual brilliancy:

"He had great learning."

"Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?"
asked Pensee, abruptly.

"Let me take refuge in a quotation--

_'Justice divine
Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.'_

I can understand that at least," answered the priest.

"How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit was talking in the
same strain only yesterday. It's a gloomy strain--for a young girl."

"I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. Life goes on, it
doesn't halt: it's a constant development. I haven't much pati