He first became aware of one enigma, the consideration of which was not
so easy to lay aside. His mother had not been deceived: there was a
change in the man since that evening. Often and often, in gloomy
breedings over his supposed disgrace, he had fiercely asserted to
himself that _he_ was free from stain, and the unrespect in which he
stood was an injustice to be bravely defied. The brand which he wore,
and which he fancied was seen by every eye he met, existed in his own
fancy; his brow was as pure, his right to esteem and honor equal, to
that of any other man. But it was impossible to act upon this reasoning;
still when the test came he would shrink and feel the pain, instead of
trampling it under his feet.

Now that the brand _was_ removed, the strength which he had so
desperately craved, was suddenly his. So far as the world was concerned,
nothing was altered; no one knew of the revelation which his mother had
made to him; he was still the child of her shame, but this knowledge was
no longer a torture. Now he had a right to respect, not asserted only to
his own heart, but which every man would acknowledge, were it made
known. He was no longer a solitary individual, protesting against
prejudice and custom. Though still feeling that the protest was just,
and that his new courage implied some weakness, he could not conceal
from himself the knowledge that this very weakness was the practical
fountain of his strength. He was a secret and unknown unit of the great
majority.

There was another, more intimate subject which the new knowledge touched
very nearly; and here, also, hope dawned upon a sense akin to despair.
With all the force of his nature, Gilbert Potter loved Martha Deane. He
had known her since he was a boy at Fairthorn's; her face had always
been the brightest in his memory; but it was only since the purchase of