"Why not?" he answered. "I have tried other things, and you know what they made of me. If I live here till I am as old as Naudheim, I shall only be suffering a just penance."

"But you are young," she murmured. "There are things in the world worth having. There is a life there worth living. Solitude such as this is the greatest panacea the world could offer for all you have been through. But it is not meant to last. We want you back again, Bertrand."

His eyes were suddenly on fire. He shrank a little away from her.

"Don't!" he begged. "Don't, Pauline. I am living my punishment here, and I have borne it without once looking back. Don't make it harder."

"I do not wish to make it harder," she declared, "and yet I meant what I said. It is not right that you should spend all your days here. It is not right for your own sake, it is not right----"

She held out her hands to him suddenly.

"It is not right for mine," she whispered.

Rochester stepped outside. Again the snow had ceased. In the forest he could hear the whirl of machinery and the crashing of the falling timber. He stood for a moment with clenched hands, with unseeing eyes, with ears in which was ringing still the memory of that low, pa.s.sionate cry. And then the fit pa.s.sed. He looked down to the little half-way house where he had left his wife. He fancied he could see someone waving a white handkerchief from the platform of pine logs. It was all so right, after all, so right and natural. He began to descend alone.

Saton brought her down about an hour later. Their faces told all that there was to say.

"Bertrand is going to stay here for another year," Pauline said, answering Lady Mary's unspoken question. "The first part of his work with Naudheim will be finished then, and we think he will have earned a vacation."

Saton held out his hands to Rochester.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have never asked you to forgive me for all the hard things I have said and thought of you, for my ingrat.i.tude, and--for other things."

"Don't speak of them," Rochester interrupted.

"I won't," Saton continued quickly. "I can't. That chapter of my life is buried. I cannot bear to think of it even now. I cannot bear to come in contact with anything which reminds me of it."

Rochester took his hand and grasped it heartily.

"Don't be morbid about it," he said. "Every man should have at least two chances in life. You had your first, and it was a rank failure.

That was because you had unnatural help, and bad advice. The second time, I am glad to see that you have succeeded. You have done this on your own. You have proved that the real man is the present man."

Saton drew Pauline towards him with a gesture which was almost reverent.

"I think that Pauline knows," he said. "I hope so."

Early in the morning their sleigh rattled off. Saton stood outside the cottage, waving his hand. Naudheim was by his side, his arm resting gently upon the young man's shoulder. A fine snow was falling around them. The air was clean and pure--the air of Heaven. There was no sound to break the deep stillness but the tinkle of the sleigh-bells, and behind, the rhythmic humming of the machinery, and the crashing of the falling trees.

"Naudheim is a great master," Rochester said.

Pauline smiled through her tears.

"Bertrand isn't such a very bad pupil."

THE END

E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels

He possesses the magic art of narration.--_New York Herald._

Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.--_Boston Transcript._

The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded by the novel of intrigue and mystery.--_The Dial, Chicago._

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.--_London Morning Post._

By all odds the most successful among the writers of that cla.s.s of fiction which, for want of a better term, maybe called "mystery stories."--_Ainslee's Magazine._

E. Phillips Oppenheim has a very admirable gift of telling good stories, thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and convincingly told.--_London Times._

Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship.--_Literary Digest_, New York.

We do not stop to inquire into the measure of his art, any more than we inquire into that of Alexandre Dumas, we only realize that here is a benefactor of tired men and women seeking relaxation.--_The Independent_, New York.

E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels

=The Moving Finger.=

A mystifying story dealing with unexpected results of a wealthy M. P.'s experiment with a poor young man.

=Berenice.=

Oppenheim in a new vein--the story of the love of a novelist of high ideals for an actress.

=The Lost Amba.s.sador.=

A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London, in which a rascally maitre d'hotel plays an important part.

=A Daughter of the Marionis.=

A melodramatic romance of Palermo and England, dealing with a rejected Italian lover's attempted revenge.

=Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown.=

A murder-mystery story rich in sensational incidents.

=The Ill.u.s.trious Prince.=

A narrative of mystery and j.a.panese political intrigue.

=Jeanne of the Marshes.=