y, "if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take
the trust in your absence. If we have war, Richard, you will not be
content to remain at home, nor would I wish it."

I did not reply.

"You will do what I ask?" he said.

"I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain," I answered. "But I have heavy
misgivings."

He sighed. "And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content," he
said.

If it were not for Tom! The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon
me then. Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I
hardly caught the words.

"In our youth, Richard," he was saying, "the wrath of the Almighty is
but so many words to most of us. When I was little more than a lad, I
committed a sin of which I tremble now to think. And I was the fool to
imagine, when I amended my life, that God had forgotten. His punishment
is no heavier than I deserve. But He alone knows what He has made me
suffer."

I felt that I had no right to be there.

"That is why I have paid Tom's debts," he continued; "I cannot cast off
my son. I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain. He is like
Reuben,--his resolutions melt in an hour. And I have pondered day and
night what is to be done for him."

"Is he to have his portion?" I asked. Indeed, the thought of the
responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me.

"Yes, he is to have it," cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a
fit of coughing. "Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have
it mortgaged within a year. He is to have his portion, but not a penny
additional."

He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him. Then, as he
reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come.
I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye. I knew that the
malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and
that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes.

"One thing more, my lad," he said, "the dearest wish of all--that you
will marry Patty. She is a good girl, Richard. And I have thought,"
he added with hesitation, "I have thought that she loves you, though her
lips have never opened on that subject."

So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the words would not
come. He missed the reason of my silence.

"I understand and honour your scruples," he went on. His kindness was
like a knife.

"No, I have had none, Mr. Swain," I exclaimed. For I would not be
thought a hypocrite.

There I stopped. A light st