Vane," put in Lavinia hastily.

"I beg your pardon for going over my sins, but open confession's good
for the soul, they say."

"I'd rather not hear about your sins, Mr. Vane. I don't want to listen
when you talk like that. Tell me something of the other side."

"I doubt if there is another side," he rejoined in deep dejection. "I've
had to come back to my father. He's vicar of a parish not far from here.
You see my stay in Newgate and my trial ruined me. The publishers
refused me employment and even my old companions turned their backs upon
me."

"That was no loss."

"Perhaps not, but it convinced me I was done for in London."

"What do you intend to do, then?"

"I can't tell. Nothing, I suppose. I had my tragedy returned, and I've
no heart to write another--except, maybe, my own, and that will have to
be the task of somebody else."

"What do you mean? You're talking in riddles. How can anybody else write
your tragedy?"

"Anybody who knew the facts could do it. You could. No one better. The
end's the difficulty--for you, not for me. But sooner or later you'd
hear what the end was."

Lavinia grasped his wrist tightly, and looking into his face, saw his
lips twitching convulsively.

"I understand," she burst out, "you mean to take your own life. Oh...."

"A tragedy must have a tragic finish or it isn't a tragedy. What have I
left but for the curtain to come down?"

"You're talking nonsense. Think of your father--your mother, if you have
one."

"The best in the world, poor soul."

"Very well, that settles it. You're more fortunate than I am. My
mother's about the worst."

"Anyhow, one must die sooner or later. I was within an ace of death two
months ago. The gallows wouldn't have been worse than a Hampstead pond."

"You're more foolish than ever. I won't listen to you. Swear to be
sensible and think no longer of the miserables. I don't believe you're
much more than a year older than me. Life's all before you."

"Life? A very little bit of it, and what a life! Waiting for death.
Shall I tell you what Dr. Mead, the great physician, told my father who
asked him to see me? 'That young man hasn't long to live. I give him a
year. Killed by the Newgate pestilence.' Now, what do you say, Miss
Fenton?"

"Don't call me Miss Fenton," cried Lavinia, her voice quivering. "It
makes us seem miles apart. You poor fellow! But doctors aren't always
right."

"This one is. I feel it. But I don't care so long as you