time and separation would gradually efface Freda Merrifield from his
memory; and I listened with a dire foreboding to the flood of
wretchedness which he poured forth as we paced up and down, thinking
now and then how little people guessed at the tremendous powers
hidden under his usually quiet exterior.

At length he paused, but his last heart-broken words seemed to
vibrate in the air and to force me to speak some kind of comfort.

"Derrick," I said, "come back with me to London--give up this
miserable life."

I felt him start a little; evidently no thought of yielding had come
to him before. We were passing the house that used to belong to
that strange book-lover and recluse, Beckford. I looked up at the
blank windows, and thought of that curious, self-centred life in the
past, surrounded by every luxury, able to indulge every whim; and
then I looked at my companion's pale, tortured face, and thought of
the life he had elected to lead in the hope of saving one whom duty
bound him to honour. After all, which life was the most worth
living--which was the most to be admired?

We walked on; down below us and up on the farther hill we could see
the lights of Bath; the place so beautiful by day looked now like a
fairy city, and the Abbey, looming up against the moon-lit sky,
seemed like some great giant keeping watch over the clustering roofs
below. The well-known chimes rang out into the night and the clock
struck ten.

"I must go back," said Derrick, quietly. "My father will want to