It was a piteous cry, and had she been convicted of murder Colonel Schuyler would have stood by her with that sound in his ears. She was going to tell him, instead of his telling her! He was sure of it, and in his anxiety to know how she would begin, he resolved not to help her at first, but hear what she had to say. For a moment she lay very still, with her hands locked tightly together, and he knew that she was praying, for he caught the words “Help me,” as they came from her white lips. And heaven did help her, and the iron fingers were held back and her respiration was unimpeded, save by strong emotion when she at last began: “Howard, do you remember the day when we were married, and I fainted in my dressing-room before going to the train?” It was coming now, sure, and he replied: “Yes, Edith, I remember it; your mother said it was in some way connected with that _affaire du cœur_.” “Yes, Howard, it was. Hold my hand, please, and hold it tight; till you feel your love for me going away.” He took her hand and held it fast, while she continued: “And do you remember the little inn, and the pleasant night, and the perfume of the flowers in the yard and the fresh hay on the lawn, and you sitting on the balcony when I came to tell you something, which you refused to hear?” “Yes, Edith, I remember it. Does one forget his wedding day so easily that I should forget that,” he said; and Edith went on: “You asked me to call you Howard, and I said, wait till I have told you what might make a difference, but you would not listen. You were satisfied, you said, and if there was anything more you did not wish to hear it, and you promised that whatever came in the future you would have faith in me and believe I meant to do right. Howard, there _was_ something more, a terrible something, and I must tell it to you now, but draw the curtain, please; shut out the moonlight and turn off the gas. I’d rather be in the dark, and not see your face, when your love begins to turn to hate.” It would be cruel to let her go further. He had heard enough to satisfy him that a full confession was to be made, and without dropping the curtain or turning the gas lower he leaned over her, and said: “One question, Edith, please; do you love me now better than you did on our wedding day? Is there no regret in your heart for that early lover? Tell me truly, Edith.” “No, not the way you mean. Regret there is, it is true, but not that way. The love I had for him has been overshadowed by a later and mightier love; and, I can truly say, few wives have ever loved their husbands as I love you, and that makes it so hard to tell you now when I want your love so much. Oh, Howard, just once, for the sake of all the happiness we have had together, kiss me and hold me in your arms as you used to do. You’ll never hold me so again, but this once do not refuse.”