The horrible conflict and confusion of mind came back. I felt as if right and wrong were inextricably mixed together, laying me under a sort of moral paralysis, out of which the only escape was madness. Then out of the deeps I cried unto Thee: O Thou whose infinite justice includes also infinite forgiveness; and Thou heardest me. "_When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive?_" I remembered these words: and unto Thee I trusted my Max's soul. It was daylight now, and the little birds began waking up, one by one, until they broke into a perfect chorus of chirping and singing. I thought, was ever grief like this of mine? Yes--one grief would have been worse--if, this sunny summer morning, I knew he had ceased to love me, and I to believe in him--if I had lost him--never either in this world or the next, to find him more. After a little, I thought if I could only go to sleep, though but for half an hour--it would be well. So I undressed and laid myself down, with Max's letter tight hidden in my hands. Sleep came; but it ended in dreadful dreams, out of which I awoke, screaming, to see Penelope standing by my bedside, with my breakfast. Now, I had already laid my plans--to tell my father all. For he must be told. No other alternative presented itself to me as possible--nor, I knew, would it to Max. When two people are thoroughly one, each guesses instinctively the other's mind; in most things always in all great things, for one faith and love includes also one sense of right. I was as sure as I was of my existence that Max meant my father to be told. Not even to make me happy would he have deceived me--and not even that we might be married, would he consent that we should deceive my father. Thus, that my father must be told, and that I must tell him, was a matter settled and clear--but I never considered about how far must be explained to anyone else, till I saw Penelope stand there with her familiar household face, half cross, half alarmed. "Why, child, what on earth is the matter? Here are you, staring as if you were out of your senses--and there is Doctor Urquhart, who has been haunting the place like a ghost ever since daylight. I declare, I'll send for him and give him a piece of my mind." "Don't, don't," I gasped, and all the horror returned--vivid as daylight makes any new anguish. Penelope soothed me--with the motherliness that had come over since I was ill, and the gentleness that had grown up in her since she had been happy, and Francis loving. My miserable heart yearned to her, a woman like myself--a good woman, too, though I did not appreciate her once, when I was young and foolish, and had never known care, as she had. How it came out I cannot tell--I have never regretted it--nor did Max, for I think it saved my heart from breaking--but I then and there told my sister Penelope our dreadful story.