int
voice, he said, "Are we alone, Upton?"

"Yes," said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers which lay on
the counterpane before him.

"You forgive me, Upton," said he,--and the words trembled as he uttered
them,--"You forgive me, Upton, though I cannot forgive myself."

"My dear friend, a passing moment of impatience is not to breach the
friendship of a lifetime. Your calmer judgment would, I know, not be
unjust to me."

"But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?"

"By never alluding to it,--never thinking of it again, Glenoore."

"It is so unworthy, so ignoble in me!" cried Glenoore, bitterly; and a
tear fell over his eyelid and rested on his wan and worn cheek.

"Let us never think of it, my dear Glenoore. Life has real troubles
enough for either of us, not to dwell on those which we may fashion out
of our emotions. I promise you, I have forgotten the whole incident."

Glenoore sighed heavily, but did not speak; at last he said, "Be it
so, Upton," and, covering his face with his hand, lay still and silent.
"Well," said he, after a long pause, "the die is cast, Upton: I have
told him!"

"Told the boy?" said Upton.

He nodded an assent. "It is too late to oppose me now, Upton,--the thing
is done. I didn't think I had strength for it; but revenge is a strong
stimulant, and I felt as though once more restored to health, as I
proceeded. Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do I say? No,
but better than man ever bore such crushing tidings."

"He asked me to stop once, while his head reeled, and said, 'In a minute
I shall be myself again,' and so he was, too; you should have seen him,
Upton, as he rose to leave me. So much of dignity was there in his
look that my heart misgave me; and I told him that still, as my son,
he should never want a friend and a protector. He grew deadly pale,
and caught at the bed for support. Another moment, and I 'd not have
answered for myself. I was already relenting; but I thought of _her_,
and my resolution came back in all its force. Still, I dared not look on
him. The sight of that wan cheek, those quivering lips and glassy eyes,
would certainly have unmanned me. I turned away. When I looked round, he
was gone!' As he ceased to speak, a clammy perspiration burst forth over
his face and forehead, and he made a sign to Upton to wet his lips.

"It is the last pang she is to cost me, Upton, but it is a sore one!"
said he, in a low, hoarse whisper.

"M