have learned to feel toward her more as a father than as a brother.  All my life, all my dearest hopes, all my highest expectations, have centered in her.  I was past the period of my boyhood when my mother put my little child sister’s hand in mine, and said to me on her death-bed:  ’Louis, be all to her that I have been, for she has no one left to look to but you.’  Since then the loves and ambitions of other men have not been my loves or my ambitions.  Sister Rose—­as we all used to call her in those past days, as I love to call her still—­Sister Rose has been the one aim, the one happiness, the one precious trust, the one treasured reward, of all my life.  I have lived in this poor house, in this dull retirement, as in a paradise, because Sister Rose—­my innocent, happy, bright-faced Eve—­has lived here with me.  Even if the husband of her choice had been the husband of mine, the necessity of parting with her would have been the hardest, the bitterest of trials.  As it is, thinking what I think, dreading what I dread, judge what my feelings must be on the eve of her marriage; and know why, and with what object, I made the appeal which surprised you a moment since, but which cannot surprise you now.  Speak if you will—­I can say no more.”  He sighed bitterly; his head dropped on his breast, and the hand which he had extended to Lomaque trembled as he withdrew it and let it fall at his side.

The land-steward was not a man accustomed to hesitate, but he hesitated now.  He was not usually at a loss for phrases in which to express himself, but he stammered at the very outset of his reply.  “Suppose I answered,” he began, slowly; “suppose I told you that you wronged him, would my testimony really be strong enough to shake opinions, or rather presumptions, which have been taking firmer and firmer hold of you for months and months past?  Suppose, on the other hand, that my master had his little” (Lomaque hesitated before he pronounced the next word)—­“his little—­infirmities, let me say; but only hypothetically, mind that—­infirmities; and suppose I had observed them, and was willing to confide them to you, what purpose would such a confidence answer now, at the eleventh hour, with Mademoiselle Rose’s heart engaged, with the marriage fixed for to-morrow?  No! no! trust me—­”

Trudaine looked up suddenly.  “I thank you for reminding me, Monsieur Lomaque, that it is too late now to make inquiries, and by consequence too late also to trust in others.  My sister has chosen; and on the subject of that choice my lips shall be henceforth sealed.  The events of the future are with God; whatever they may be, I hope I am strong enough to bear my part in them with the patience and the courage of a man!  I apologize, Monsieur Lomaque, for having thoughtlessly embarrassed you by questions which I had no right to ask.  Let us return to the house—­I will show you the way.”

Lomaque’s lips opened, then closed again; he bowed uneasily, and his sallow complexion whitened for a moment.