VII

In Hume's house at midnight Lepage lay asleep with his wife's
letters--received through the factor--in his hand. The firelight played
upon a dark, disappointed face--a doomed, prematurely old face, as it
seemed to the factor.

"You knew him, then," the factor said, after a long silence, with a
gesture towards the bed.

"Yes, well, years ago," replied Hume.

Just then the sick man stirred in his sleep, and he said disjointedly:
"I'll make it all right to you, Hume." Then came a pause, and a quicker
utterance: "Forgive--forgive me, Rose." The factor got up, and turned to
go, and Hume, with a sorrowful gesture, went over to the bed.

Again the voice said: "Ten years--I have repented ten years--I dare not
speak--"

The factor touched Hume's arm. "He has fever. You and I must nurse him,
Hume. You can trust me--you understand."

"Yes, I can trust you," was the reply. "But I can tell you nothing."

"I do not want to know anything. If you can watch till two o'clock I will
relieve you. I'll send the medicine chest over. You know how to treat