difference between love and justice."

James Wentworth laughed sneeringly.

"There is little enough difference as it is, perhaps," he said; "they're
both blind. Well, Madge," he added, in a more serious tone, "you're a
generous-minded, noble-spirited girl, and I believe you do love me. I
fancy that if you never asked the secret of my life, you can guess it
pretty closely, eh?"

He looked searchingly at the girl's face. She hung her head, but did not
answer him.

"You can guess the secret, can't you, Madge? Don't be afraid to speak,
girl."

"I fear I can guess it, father dear," she murmured in a low voice.

"Speak out, then."

"I am afraid the reason you have never prospered--the reason that so
many are against you--is that you once did something wrong, very long
ago, when you were young and reckless, and scarcely knew the nature of
your own act; and that now, though you are truly penitent and sorry, and
have long wished to lead an altered life, the world won't forget or
forgive that old wrong. Is it so, father?"

"It is, Margaret. You've guessed right enough, child, except that you've
omitted one fact. The wrong I did was done for the sake of another. I
was tempted to do it by another. I made no profit by it myself, and I