Edward had formed a definite determination and made his arrangements at once. There had been a coolness between him and Eldridge since the publication of the Royson letter, but necessity drove him to that lawyer to conclude his arrangements for departure. It was a different man that entered the lawyer's office this time. He gave directions for the disposition of Ilexhurst and the conversion of other property into cash. He would never live on the place again under any circumstances.

His business was to be managed by the old legal firm in New York.

The memoranda was completed and he took his departure.

He had given orders for flowers and ascertained by telephone that they were ready. At 3 o'clock he met Mary driving in and took his seat beside her in the old family carriage. Her dress of black brought out the pale, sweet face in all its beauty. She flushed slightly as he greeted her. Within the vehicle were only the few roses she had been able to gather, with cedar and euonymus. But they drove by a green house and he filled the carriage with the choicest productions of the florist, and then gave the order to the driver to proceed at once to the cemetery.

Within the grounds, where many monuments marked the last resting-place of the old family, was the plain newly made mound covering the remains of friend and father. At sight if it Mary's calmness disappeared and her grief overran its restraints. Edward stood silent, his face averted.

Presently he thought of the flowers and brought them to her. In the arrangement of these the bare sod disappeared and the girl's grief was calmed. She lingered long about the spot, and before she left it knelt in silent prayer, Edward lifting his hat and waiting with bowed head.

The sad ceremony ended, she looked to him and he led the way to where old Isham waited with the carriage. He sent him around toward Gerald's grave, under a wide-spreading live oak, while they went afoot by the direct way impassable for vehicles. They reached the parapet and would have crossed it, when they saw kneeling at the head of the grave a woman dressed in black, seemingly engaged in prayer.

Edward had caused to be placed above the remains a simple marble slab, which bore the brief inscription:

GERALD MORGAN.
Died 1888.

They watched until the woman arose and laid a wreath upon the slab. When at last she turned her face and surveyed the scene they saw before them, pale and grief-stricken, Cambia. Edward felt the scene whirling about him and his tongue paralyzed. Cambia, at sight of them gave way again to a grief that had left her pale and haggard, and could only extend the free hand, while with the other she sought to conceal her face. Edward came near, his voice scarcely audible.

"Cambia!" he exclaimed in wonder; "Cambia!" she nodded her head.

"Yes, wretched, unhappy Cambia!"

"Then, madame," he said, with deep emotion, pointing to the grave and touching her arm, "what was he to you?" She looked him fairly in the face from streaming eyes.

"He was my son! It cannot harm him now. Alas, poor Cambia!"

"Your son!" The man gazed about him bewildered. "Your son, madame? You are mistaken! It cannot be!"

"Ah!" she exclaimed; "how little you know. It can be—it is true!"

"It cannot be; it cannot be!" the words of the horrified man were now a whisper.

"Do you think a mother does not know her offspring? Your talk is idle; Gerald Morgan was my son. I have known, John Morgan knew——"

"But Rita," he said, piteously.

"Ah, Rita, poor Rita, she could not know!"

The manner, the words, the tone overwhelmed him. He turned to Mary for help in his despair. Almost without sound she had sunk to the grass and now lay extended at full length. With a fierce exclamation Edward rushed to her and lifted the little figure in his arms. Cambia was at his side.

"What is this? What was she to him?" some explanation was necessary and Edward's presence of mind returned.

"He loved her," he said. The face of Cambia grew soft and tender and she spread her wrap on the rustic bench.

"Place her here and bring water. Daughter," she exclaimed, kneeling by her side, "come, come, this will never do—" The girl's eyes opened and for a moment rested in wonder upon Cambia. Then she remembered. A strange expression settled upon her face as she gazed quickly upon Edward.

"Take me home, madame," she said; "take me home. I am deathly ill."

They carried her to the carriage, and, entering, Cambia took the little head in her lap. Shocked and now greatly alarmed, Edward gave orders to the driver and entered. It was a long and weary ride, and all the time the girl lay silent and speechless in Cambia's lap, now and then turning upon Edward an indescribable look that cut him to the heart.

They would have provided for her in the city, but she would not hear of it. Her agitation became so great that Edward finally directed the driver to return to The Hall. All the way back the older woman murmured words of comfort and cheer, but the girl only wept and her slender form shook with sobs. And it was not for herself that she grieved.

And so they came to the house, and Mary, by a supreme effort, was able to walk with assistance and to enter without disturbing the household. Cambia supported her as they reached the hall to the room that had been Mary's all her life—the room opposite her mother's. There in silence she assisted the girl to the bed. From somewhere came Molly, the maid, and together using the remedies that women know so well they made her comfortable. No one in the house had been disturbed, and then as Mary slept Cambia went out and found her way to the side of Mrs. Montjoy and felt the bereaved woman's arms about her.

"You have reconsidered, and wisely," said Mrs. Montjoy, when the first burst of emotion was over. "I am glad you have come—where is Mary?"

"She was fatigued from the excitement and long drive and is in her room. I met her in town and came with her. But madame, think not of me; you are now the sufferer; my troubles are old. But you—what can I say to comfort you?"

"I am at peace, my child; God's will be done. When you can say that you will not feel even the weight of your sorrows. Life is not long, at best, and mine must necessarily be short. Some day I will see again." Cambia bowed her head until it rested upon the hand that clasped hers. In the presence of such trust and courage she was a child.

"My daughter," said Mrs. Montjoy, after a silence, her mind reverting to her visitor's remark; "she is not ill?"

"Not seriously, madame, but still she is not well."

"Then I will go to her if you will lend me your aid. I am not yet accustomed to finding my way. I suppose I will have no trouble after a while." The strong arm of the younger woman clasped and guided her upon the little journey, and the mother took the place of the maid. Tea was brought to them and in the half-lighted room they sat by the now sleeping figure on the bed, and whispered of Cambia's past and future. The hours passed. The house had grown still and Molly had been sent to tell Edward of the situation and give him his lamp.

But Edward was not alone. The general had ridden over to inquire after his neighbors and together they sat upon the veranda and talked, and Edward listened or seemed to listen. The rush of thoughts, the realization that had come over him at the cemetery, now that necessity for immediate action had passed with his charge, returned. Cambia had been found weeping over her son, and that son was Gerald. True or untrue, it was fatal to him if Cambia was convinced.

But it could not be less than true; he, Edward, was an outcast upon the face of the earth; his dream was over; through these bitter reflections the voice of the general rose and fell monotonously, as he spoke feelingly of the dead friend whom he had known since childhood and told of their long associations and adventures in the war. And then, as Edward sought to bring himself back to the present, he found himself growing hot and cold and his heart beating violently; the consequences of the revelation made in the cemetery had extended no further than himself and his own people, but Cambia was Marion Evan! And her father was there, by him, ignorant that in the house was the daughter dead to him for more than a quarter of a century. He could not control an exclamation. The speaker paused and looked at him.

"Did you speak?" The general waited courteously.

"Did I? It must have been involuntarily—a habit! You were saying that the colonel led his regiment at Malvern Hill." Evan regarded him seriously.

"Yes, I mentioned that some time ago. He was wounded and received the praise of Jackson as he was borne past him. I think Montjoy considered that the proudest moment of his life. When Jackson praised a man he was apt to be worthy of it. He praised me once," he said, half-smiling over the scene in mind.

But Edward had again lost the thread of the narrative. Cambia had returned; a revelation would follow; the general would meet his daughter, and over the grave of Gerald the past would disappear from their lives. What was to become of him? He remembered that John Morgan had corresponded with her, and communicated personally. She must know his history. In the coming denouement there would be a shock for him. He would see these friends torn from him, not harshly nor unkindly, but between them and him would fall the iron rule of caste, which has never been broken in the south—the race law, which no man can override. With something like a panic within he decided at once. He would not witness the meeting. He would give them no chance to touch him by sympathetic pity and by—aversion. It should all come to him by letter, while he was far away! His affairs were in order. The next day he would be gone.

"General," he said, "will you do me a favor? I must return to the city; my coming was altogether a matter of accident, and I am afraid it will inconvenience our friends here at this time to send me back. Let me have your horse and I will send him to you in the morning."

The abrupt interruption filled the old man with surprise.

"Why, certainly, if you must go. But I thought you had no idea of returning—is it imperative?"

"Imperative. I am going away from the city to-morrow, and there are yet matters—you understand, and Virdow is expecting me. I trust it will not inconvenience you greatly. It would be well, probably, if one of us stayed to-night; this sudden illness—the family's condition——"

"Inconvenience! Nonsense! If you must go, why, the horse is yours of course as long as you need him." But still perplexed the general waited in silence for a more definite explanation. Edward was half-facing the doorway and the lighted hall was exposed to him, but the shadow of the porch hid him from anyone within. It was while they sat thus that the old man felt a hand upon his arm and a grasp that made him wince. Looking up he saw the face of his companion fixed on some object in the hall, the eyes starting from their sockets. Glancing back he became the witness of a picture that almost caused his heart to stand still.