went on. "I would have died to save you an hour of pain. I have kept
the one secret of my life well--a secret that has blighted it before
its time--but I can not face the dread unknown and bear my secret with
me. On my death-bed I must tell all, and my darling boy must bear the
blow."

Everard Kingsland listened to his father's huskily murmured words in
boyish wonderment. What secret was he talking of? He glanced across
at his mother, and saw her pale cheeks suddenly flushed and her calm
eyes kindling.

"No living soul has ever heard from me what I must tell you to-night,
my Everard--not even your mother. Do not leave me, Olivia. You, too,
must know all that you may guard your son--that you may pity and
forgive me. Perhaps I have erred in keeping any secret from you, but
the truth was too horrible to tell. There have been times when the
thought of it nearly drove me mad. How, then, could I tell the wife I
loved--the son I idolized--this cruel and shameful thing?"

The youthful Everard looked simply bewildered--Lady Kingsland excited,
expectant, flushed.

She gently wiped the clammy brow and held a reviving cordial to the
livid lips.

"My dearest, do not agitate yourself," she said. "We will listen to
all you have to say, and love you none the less, let it be what it
will."

"My own dear wife! half the secret you know already. You remember the