There were tears in Edith’s eyes, and her voice trembled as she spoke, while Mrs. Lyle stopped her knitting and looked curiously at her. She had thought her proud and haughty, and had felt a little hurt by her silence and reserve, while her daughter, in her coarser way, had not hesitated to call her airy and an upstart, wondering who she was to feel so much above them. That she was pretty, even Jenny conceded, while the mother thought her very beautiful and grand. “Fit to be a duchess,” was her verdict now, when she saw her again so humble and sweet, apologizing for her reserve of the day before, and asking to hear about her poor dead boy. She liked to talk of him, and once launched upon the subject did not know when to stop, but talked on and on, narrating incidents of his babyhood, boyhood and early manhood, while Edith listened with hands clasped tightly together and a heart which beat almost audibly. “And ye are goin’ where he’s buried,” Mrs. Lyle said to her. “And if ye want an old woman’s blessin’, maylike you’ll keep his grave fresh and clean, and send me a posy from it some day.” “I will, I promise you I will, and if I can ever tell you about that girl who loved him, I will do so,” Edith said vehemently; and then, impelled by an impulse she could not resist, she continued: “Mrs. Lyle, I want to ask you something which you’ll please keep to yourself. You are old, and I am young; you are good, and I am not, but I want to be, so much. If there was something in your life which you supposed your husband knew, and which, after you were married, you found he did not know, though through no fault of yours, and if you felt almost sure that, had he known it, he would not have married you, and might think less of you now, would you consider it your duty to tell him?” Edith gasped out the words and sat panting with excitement and agitation, while Mrs. Lyle considered for a moment, and then replied in the following words, which I render in good English: “Is the something which he don’t know a _sin_, a crime, a wrong to him, or anybody?” “No, not a sin, or wrong, only a mistake,” Edith replied; and the woman continued: “Would the withholding it now do harm to any one?” “No; on the contrary, the telling it might cause my husband to think less of me, and make us very unhappy.” “Then if you meant no wrong, and the telling it can do no good, and might do harm, and no one is interested but yourself, keep it to yourself,” Mrs. Lyle said, while Edith felt herself growing light as air. It was strange how much comfort she derived from Mrs. Lyle’s advice, and how much confidence she felt in the judgment of this woman, whom she had seen but once before. It was almost as if absolution had been granted her for her sins, past, present, and to come, and no religious devotee ever felt lighter and freer after a full confession than Edith did for a few moments after hearing Mrs. Lyle’s decision.