not one hour in future. 'Though much is taken, much
remains,' as the poet says; and you and I, Florence, have all to look
for in the future and nothing in the past."

"That is true," she said, in a very low tone. "Nothing in the past!"
Then she sat up, as if stirred to movement by his attitude, and looked
at him again. "What has caused this change of mind, Hubert? Have you
fallen in love?"

He uttered a short laugh.

"Not I--I don't know the sensation."

"You knew it a few years ago, when I thought you would marry pretty Mary
Marsden."

"She married a Jew money-lender," said Hubert drily. "I saw her the
other day--she weighs fourteen stone, I should think!"

"Poor little Mary! It is not love then?"

"No, it is not." He was silent a minute or two, pulling his moustache
with a quick nervous movement which betrayed some agitation of mind.
Then he said quickly, "I had better tell you something and get it over,
though I have no wish to rake up the memory of unpleasant subjects. I
heard a few months ago that the man Westwood was dead."

"Dead? At Portland?"

"Yes. An accident on the works where he was engaged. He died after a few
hours' unconsciousness."

Florence meditated for a few moments and then said softly--

"I think that I now understand."

"It will be better that we do not speak of the matter again," said
Hubert, in the masterful way which she was beginning to recognise as one
of his characteristics. "It is all over and done with; nothing we can
say or do will make any difference. The man is gone, and we are here. We
can begin a new life if we choose."

His sister watched him with eyes which expressed a greater gloom than he
was able to understand. Her hands began to tremble as he said the last
few words.

"You can--you can!" she cried, almost with vehemence. "But for me--there
is no new life for me!"--and covering her face with her hands, she began
to weep, not violently, but so that he saw the tears oozing from between
her slender fingers.

Hubert stood aghast. Was this trembling woman the cold imperturbable
sister whom he had known of old? He had seldom seen Florence shed tears,
even in her youthful days. Was it the consciousness of her past guilt
that had changed her thus?

He reflected that, according to all tradition, a woman's nature was more
sensitive and delicate than that of a man. Florence was weighed down
perhaps by that sense of remorse which he had well-nigh forgotten. He
had, as h