“No, Jack; I have not. I tried at first,—I meant to,—I really did; but I could not say the words, they choked me so. I couldn’t tell him, Jack!” and her voice was very mournful in its tone. “Think, if it were yourself, and you felt sure that to tell would be to lose Maude’s love, would you do it?—could you?” She had made her strongest argument, and Jack hesitated ere he replied: “It would be hard; but better so, it seems to me, than to live with a lie on my conscience, and a constant, haunting fear lest she should find it out.” “But he can’t, Jack,—he never can,—unless _you_ tell him, or Maude. How much does _she_ know? Oh, Jack, have you broken your oath, sworn so solemnly to me.” There was a flash in her black eyes as they fastened themselves upon Jack, who replied to her, truthfully: “Maude knows nothing, except that there is something you would hide from Roy, and from the world. I hinted so much to her, as a weapon of defence for Edna. Whether she or any one else ever knows more from me, depends upon yourself, and your treatment of Edna.” “I knew you would not betray me, Jack,” Georgie rejoined, a heavy weight lifted from her mind. “I shall not harm Mrs. Charlie Churchill,—I shall try to like her, for your sake and Maude’s. And, now, why need I tell Roy, when he never can, by any possibility, find it out, and to tell him would only distress him, and ruin me?” “Perhaps not. If he loves you truly, as I love Maude, he can forgive a great deal. I should try it and see,—I should go to him clean and open-hearted, or not at all,” Jack said; but Georgie shook her head. Confessing her fault would involve too much, for more people than Roy would have to know, if full confession was made; Aunt Burton, who thought her so perfect, and her Uncle Burton, too, and, possibly, little Annie; and from that last ordeal Georgie shrank more nervously, if possible, than from telling Roy himself. She could _not_ do it. She would rather die than attempt it, and she said so to Jack, who was silent for a moment, and then regarding her intently, asked: “Has it ever occurred to you, Georgie, that possibly the dead might come to life and witness against you? Such accidents have happened.” “The dead, Jack; the dead?” and Georgie’s face was like the face of a corpse, and her voice was husky and thick. “That cannot be. I saw him in the coffin. I know just where he lies in Greenwood.” “I was not thinking of him, but of Henry; you did not see him in his coffin. You don’t know where his grave is.” “No; but Jack, there can be no doubt. You made so sure yourself. You told me he was dead. Was it all a farce? Oh, Jack, do you know anything—”