imagine. He kept himself, his wounded conscience, his
fears, his heavy burden of sin in abeyance for the sake of the
fast-fleeting little life, because he willed, with all the strength
of his nature, to give the child every comfort that lay in his power
during her last moments.

But the peaceful days could not last long. They came to an end with
the big bazaar. The band ceased to play on the lawn, the pleasure
boats ceased to ply up and down the Thames, the lovely Indian summer
passed into duller weather, the equinoctial gales visited the land,
and Ogilvie knew that he must brace himself for something he had long
made up his mind to accomplish. He must pass out of this time of
quiet into a time of storm. He had known from the first that he must
do this, but until the bazaar came to an end, by a sort of tacit
consent, neither the child nor the man talked of the gold mine.

But now the guests having gone, even Lady Helen Douglas and Lord
Grayleigh having left the house, Ogilvie knew that he must act.

On the morning of the third day after his return Mrs. Ogilvie entered
Sibyl's room. She came in quietly looking pale and at the same time
jubilant. The result of the bazaar was a large check which was to be
sent off that day to the Home for Incurables at Watleigh. Mrs. Ogilvie
felt herself a very good and charitable woman indeed. She wore her
very prettiest dress and had smiles in her dark eyes.

"Oh! my ownest darling mother, how sweet you look!" said little Sibyl.
"Come and kiss me, darling mother."

Mrs. Ogilvie had to bend forward to catch the failing voice. She asked
the child what she said. Sibyl feebly repeated her words.

"Don't tire her," said Ogilvie; "if you cannot hear, be satisfied to
guess. The child wishes you to kiss her."

Mrs. Ogilvie turned on her husband a look of reproach. There was an
expression in her eyes which seemed to say: "And you think that I, a
mother, do not understand my own child." But Ogilvie would not meet
his wife's eyes. He walked to one of the windows and looked out. The
little, white couch had been moved a trifle out of the window now that
the weather was getting chilly, and a screen was put up to protect the
child from any draught.

Ogilvie stood and looked across the garden. Where the marquee had
stood the grass was already turning yellow, there were wisps of straw
about; the scene without seemed to him to be full with desolation.
Suddenly he turned, walked to the fireplace,