for
the natural child. It would well become him to do so. Let him rise to
it. Our Saviour said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' The
State, on the contrary, says, 'Suffer the little children to be done to
death and put out of the way.'"

"Yes," she answered, "suffer fifty thousand little children to be lost
every year, because it is kinder to let them perish, than help them to
live under the wicked laws we have planned to govern them."

But his mind collapsed and when she strove to bring it back again, she
could not.

Two days before he died, Estelle found him in deep distress. He begged
to see her alone, and explained that he had to confess a great sin.

"I ought to tell a priest," he said, "but I dare think that you will do
as well. If you absolve me, I shall know I may hope to be forgiven. I
have lived a double life, Estelle. I have pretended what was not
true--not merely once or twice, but systematically, deliberately,
callously."

"I don't believe it, dear Mister Churchouse. You couldn't."

"I should never have believed it myself. But even the old can surprise
themselves, painfully sometimes. I have lived with this perfidy for many
years; but I can't die with it. There's always an inclination to
confess our sins to a fellow creature. To confess them to our Maker is
quite needless, because He knows them; but it's a quality of human
nature to feel better after imparting its errors to another ear."

He broke off.

"What was I saying? I forget."

"That you'd done something ever so wicked and nobody knew it."

"Yes, yes. The books--the books I used to receive from unknown admirers
by post. My child, there were no unknown admirers! Nobody ever admired
me, either secretly or openly. Why should they? I used to send the books
to myself--God forgive me."

"If I'd only known, I'd have sent you hundreds of books," she said. "I
did send you one or two."

"I know it--they are my most precious possessions. They served in some
mysterious way to soothe my bad conscience. It would be interesting to
examine and find out how they did. But my brain can't look into anything
subtle now. I knew you sent the books. My good angel has recorded my
thanks. You always increased my vitality, Estelle. You are keeping me
alive at present. You have risen in the autumn of my life as a gracious
dawn; you have been the sun of my Indian summer. You will be a good wife
to Raymond. It seems only yesterday that he was a little