wards Shuttleworth's pronouncement was keen and bitter, yet, with
her woman's superior judgment, she affected carelessness.

"You asked this lady to confess," I said, addressing him. "Confess
what?"

"The truth."

Then I turned to my well-beloved and asked--

"What is the truth? Do you love me?"

"Yes, Owen, I do," was her frank and fervent response.

"I did not mean that," said Shuttleworth hastily. "I meant the truth
concerning yourself."

"Mr. Biddulph knows what I am."

"But he does not know who you are."

"Then you may tell him," was her hoarse reply. "Tell him!" she cried
wildly. "Tear from me all that I hold sacred--all that I hold most
dear--dash me back into degradation and despair--if you will! I am in
your hands."

"Sylvia!" he said reproachfully. "I am your friend--and your father's
friend. I am not your enemy. I regret if you have ever thought I have
lifted a finger against you."

"Are you not standing as a barrier between myself and Mr. Biddulph?"
she protested, her eyes flashing.

"Because I see that only misfortune--ah! death--can arise. You know
full well the promise I have made. You know, too, what has been told
me in confidence, because--because my profession happens to be what it
is--a humble servant of God."

"Yes," she faltered, "I know--I know! Forgive me if I have spoken
harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend--and you are
Owen's. Only--only it seems very hard that you should thus put this
ban upon us--you, who preach the gospel of truth and love."

Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey
eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a
distinctly pained expression.

"I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia," he said. "Your love
for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you
realize that?"

"Sylvia has already realized it," I declared. "But we have resolved to
risk it."

"The risk is, alas! too great," he declared. "Already you are a marked
man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia's advice and to go
into hiding. Go away--into the country--and live in some quiet, remote
village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster.
To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you,
the height of folly--it is suicide!"

"Let it be so," I responded in quiet defiance. "I will never forsake
the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this
suggestion of y