He saw himself again at Christmas.  He was back at the little home which his father had taken when he lost the old place.  He saw himself unpacking his old trunk, taking out from it the little things he had brought as presents, with more pride than he had ever felt before, for he had earned them himself.  Each one represented sacrifice, thought, affection.  He could see again his father’s face lit up with pride and his mother’s radiant with delight in his achievement.  His mother was handing him her little presents,—­the gloves she had knit for him herself with so much joy; the shaving-case she had herself embroidered; the cup and saucer from the old tea-service that had belonged to his great-grandfather and great-grandmother and which had been given his mother and father when they were married.  He glanced up as she laid the delicate piece of Sevres before him, and caught her smile—­That smile!  Was there ever another like it?  It held in it—­everything.

Suddenly Livingstone felt something moving on his cheek.  He put his hand up to his face and when he took it down his fingers were wet.

With his mother’s face, another face came to him, radiant with the beauty of youth.  Catherine Trelane, since that meeting in the long avenue, had grown more and more to him, until all other motives and aims had been merged in one radiant hope.

With his love he had grown timid; he scarcely dared look into her eyes; yet now he braved the world for her; bore for her all the privations and hardships of life in its first struggle.  Indeed, for her, privation was no hardship.  He was poor in purse, but rich in hope.  Love lit up his life and touched the dull routine of his work with the light of enchantment.  If she made him timid before her, she made him bold towards the rest of the world.  ’T was for her that he had had the courage to take that plunge into the boiling sea of life in an unknown city, and it was for her that he had had strength to keep above water, where so many had gone down.

He had faced all for her and had conquered all for her.  He recalled the long struggle, the painful, patient waiting, the stern self-denial.  He had deliberately chosen between pleasure and success,—­between the present and the future.  He had denied himself to achieve his fortune, and he had succeeded.

At first, it had been for her; then Success had become dear to him for itself, had ever grown larger and dearer as he advanced, until now—­A thrill of pride ran through him, which changed into a shiver as it brought those accursed, staring, ghastly figures straight before his eyes.