"Then your name is not Abbot," said Sir William.

"Yes, but that is not the whole of it; I will, however, confide that to
you later. But of course I tell you this in strictest confidence; whatever
your decision may be after you hear my story, I charge you not to betray
me to any one."

"You may trust me," said the young man, quietly.

"Then draw your chair closer, for not even Virgie knows the very worst,
and I would not make her burden any heavier when there is no need."

The young baronet did as he was requested, but he looked both troubled and
pale, for he knew not how this story might affect his future prospects. He
was not different from his kind in some points; he belonged to an old and
honored family; no shadow had ever tarnished their fair fame; he was proud
and tenacious of honor, and his heart was heavy with apprehension as he
thought that he might be about to hear some story of crime or wrong that
would forever separate him from the woman whom he had learned to idolize.

Mr. Abbot leaned nearer his companion, and in a low voice gave him a brief
and rapid account of his life and the adverse fate that had served to
banish him to the sparsely populated mountains of Nevada. It was a
strange, sad story of sin, and wrong, and shame, in which a complication
of evidence and circumstances had permitted the real offender to escape
justice and another to suffer the consequences of his crime.

Sir William Heath never once moved or spoke during its recital, but his
fine face expressed pain, and sorrow, and sympathy throughout, and when at