red,
not to find one for himself.

But Rickie slept. The guilt of months and the remorse of the last ten
days had alike departed. He had thought that his life was poisoned, and
lo! it was purified. He had cursed his mother, and Ansell had replied,
"You may be right, but you stand too near to settle. Step backwards.
Pretend that it happened to me. Do you want me to curse my mother?
Now, step forward and see whether anything has changed." Something had
changed. He had journeyed--as on rare occasions a man must--till he
stood behind right and wrong. On the banks of the grey torrent of life,
love is the only flower. A little way up the stream and a little way
down had Rickie glanced, and he knew that she whom he loved had risen
from the dead, and might rise again. "Come away--let them die out--let
them die out." Surely that dream was a vision! To-night also he hurried
to the window--to remember, with a smile, that Orion is not among the
stars of June.

"Let me die out. She will continue," he murmured, and in making plans
for Stephen's happiness, fell asleep.

Next morning after breakfast he announced that his brother must live
at Dunwood House. They were awed by the very moderation of his tone.
"There's nothing else to be done. Cadover's hopeless, and a boy of those
tendencies can't go drifting. There is also the question of a profession
for him, and his allowance."

"We have to thank Mr. Ansell for this," was all that Agnes could say;
and "I foresee disaster," was the contribution of Herbert.

"There's plenty of money about," Rickie continued. "Quite a man's-worth
too much. It has been one of our absurdities. Don't look so sad,
Herbert. I'm sorry for you people, but he's sure to let us down easy."
For his experience of drunkards and of Stephen was small.

He supposed that he had come without malice to renew the offer of ten
days ago.

"It is the end of Dunwood House."

Rickie nodded, and hoped not. Agnes, who was not looking well, began to
cry. "Oh, it is too bad," she complained, "when I've saved you from him
all these years." But he could not pity her, nor even sympathize with
her wounded delicacy. The time for such nonsense was over. He would take
his share of the blame: it was cant to assume it all.

Perhaps he was over-hard. He did not realize how large his share was,
nor how his very virtues were to blame for her deterioration. "If I had
a girl, I'd keep her in line," is not the remark of a fool nor of a c