Greta sunk on to the settle in the window recess. Hugh walked to the hearth and paused with rigid features before the haunting mirror.
Paul stood for a moment hand in hand with his mother, motionless, speechless, cold at his heart. Then he hurried into the inner room. Mrs. Ritson followed him, closing the door behind him.
The little oak-bound room was dusky; the lamp that burned low was shaded. Across the bed lay Allan Ritson, in his habit as he lived. But his lips were white and cold.
Paul stood and looked down. There lay his father—his father still! His father by right of nature—of love—of honor—let the world say what it would.
And he knew the truth at last: too late to look into those glassy eyes and read the secret of their long years of suffering love.
"Father," Paul whispered, and fell to his knees by the deaf ear.
Mrs. Ritson, strangely quiet, strangely calm, stepped to the opposite side of the bed, and placed one hand on the dead man's breast.
"Paul," she said, "come here."
He rose to his feet and walked to her side.
"Lay your hand with mine, and pledge to me your solemn word never to speak of what you have heard to-night until that great day when we three shall stand together before the great white throne."