and their needs than he had ever done; and works of charity on his part
as well as on his sweet young wife's were not lacking. He seemed to have
set all his hopes on the child that was coming, and as he looked deeper
into the future the dark shadow that had come over his face seemed to
die gradually away.

All the time Wykham Delandre nursed his revenge. Deep in his heart had
grown up a purpose of vengeance which only waited an opportunity to
crystallise and take a definite shape. His vague idea was somehow
centred in the wife of Brent, for he knew that he could strike him best
through those he loved, and the coming time seemed to hold in its womb
the opportunity for which he longed. One night he sat alone in the
living-room of his house. It had once been a handsome room in its way,
but time and neglect had done their work and it was now little better
than a ruin, without dignity or picturesqueness of any kind. He had been
drinking heavily for some time and was more than half stupefied. He
thought he heard a noise as of someone at the door and looked up. Then
he called half savagely to come in; but there was no response. With a
muttered blasphemy he renewed his potations. Presently he forgot all
around him, sank into a daze, but suddenly awoke to see standing before
him someone or something like a battered, ghostly edition of his sister.
For a few moments there came upon him a sort of fear. The woman before
him, with distorted features and burning eyes seemed hardly human, and
the only thing that seemed a reality of his sister, as she had been, was
her wealth of golden hair, and this was now streaked with grey. She eyed
her brother with a long, cold stare; and he, too, as he looked and began
to realise the actuality of her presence, found the hatred of her which
he had had, once again surging up in his heart. All the brooding passion
of the past year seemed to find a voice at once as he asked her: