"Well, I am—home," said Barnhurst, with a smile hard to define.
"I will sleep in your room," answered Arthur, quietly. "To-morrow, at ten, we go together to that house."
"Let us retire, then," answered Herman. The hanging lamp lighted the stairway, and disclosed the door at its head.
Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his arm, led the way up the staircase, and paused for a moment at the door. He bent his head as if to listen for the echo of a sound, but no sound was heard. Herman gently opened the door, and entered—followed by Arthur—a spacious chamber, dimly lighted by a taper on the mantle.
"Hush!" said Herman, and pointed to a small couch, on which a boy of some three years was sleeping; his rosy face, ruffled by a smile, and his hair lying in thick curls all about his snow-white forehead.
"Hush!" again said Herman, and pointed to a curtained bed. A beautiful woman was sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cradled on her arm. The faces of the mother and babe, laid close together on the pillow, looked very beautiful—almost holy—in the soft mysterious light.
"My wife! my children!" gasped Herman. As he spoke, the agitation of his face was horrible to look upon.
Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat. He could not convince himself that it was not a dream. Again and again he turned from the face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy on the couch—to the beautiful mother and her babe, resting there in the half-broken shadows of the curtained bed,—and felt his knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat.
And in contrast with this scene of holy peace,—a pure mother, sleeping in the marriage chamber with her children,—came up before him, Alice, and her bed of torture in the den of Madam Resimer.
"This,—this," gasped Barnhurst, "this is why I couldn't marry Alice!"