ould
almost have fancied that he was but resting after the toils of a hard
day, having fallen asleep for a few minutes, as she had often seen him
in his arm chair on a Sunday evening.

Mr. Fane-Smith did not say a word, his eyes wandered from the calm face
to the still hands which clasped some sprigs of his native heather, the
heather which Donovan's children had sent only the day before, but just
in time to win one of his last smiles. Donovan and Erica spoke together
in low tones, but something in the sound of that "gravened" voice
arrested Mr. Fane-Smith's attention. He had not heard what had passed
before, and there was nothing special in the words that fell now upon
his ear; it was rather that his own soul was in a state of receptivity,
and so through the first channel that came to hand he was able to
receive a new truth.

"I am only his child; God is his Father."

And there, by the lifeless body of Luke Raeburn, one, who during his
life had judged him with the very hardest judgment, learned for the
first time what Fatherhood means.

As long as there was anything to be done, Erica struggled on although
the days were terribly hard and were rendered infinitely harder by
the sort of publicity which attended them. There was the necessity of
appearing at the inquest; there was the necessity of reading every
word that was written about her father. She could not help reading the
papers, could not keep her hands off them, though even now most cruel
things were said. There was the necessity of attending the great public
funeral in London, of seeing the thousands of grief-stricken people, of
listening to the professor's words so broken with sobs that they could
hardly be heard. A week later there was the necessity of going down to
the Ashborough assizes to appear as a witness in the trial of Drosser.

"What do you feel toward this man?" some one asked her once.

"A great pity," she replied. "It is not nearly so hard for me to forgive
this poor fanatic as to forgive those who have taught him his dark
creed, or to forgive those who, while calling themselves Christians,
have hated my father with the hatred that is quite as bad as murder."

But when the trial was over and there was no longer any necessity to
do anything, Erica suddenly broke down. She had never till now yielded
though not a night had passed in which she had not been haunted by the
frightful recollections of that Sunday evening and the days following.
But