He remembered his schooldays, devoid of pocket money, unable to join in the sports of others, slaving with melancholy perseverance for a scholarship to lighten his mother's burden.

Always there was the same ghastly, crushing penuriousness, the struggle to make a living before his schooldays were well over, the unbought books he had fingered at the bookstalls and let drop again, the coarse clothes he had been compelled to wear, the scanty food he had eaten, the narrow, driving ways of poverty, culminating in his mother's death and his own fear--he, at the age of nineteen years--lest the money for her funeral should not be forthcoming.

If there were any hell, surely he had lived in it! This other, whose flames mocked him now, could be no worse.

Sin! Crime! He remembered the words of the girl who during these latter years had represented to him what there might have been of light in life.

He remembered, and it seemed to him that he could meet that ghostly image which had risen from the black waters, without shrinking, almost contemptuously.