I understood all the past now. The wild, boyish passion, making an ideal out of a poor village girl--the unequal union--the dream fading into common day--coarseness creating repulsion--the sting of one folly which had marred a lifetime--dread of the world, self-reproach, and shame--all these excuses I could find: and yet Laurence had acted ill. And when the end came: no wonder that remorse pursued him, for he had broken a girl's heart. She might, she must, have loved him. I wept for her--I, who so passionately loved him too. He was wrong, also, grievously wrong, in not acknowledging the child. Yet there might have been reasons. His father ruled with an iron hand; and, then, when he died, Laurence had just known me. Alas! I weave all coverings to hide his fault. But surely this strong, faithful love was implanted in my heart for good. It shall not fail him now: it shall encompass him with arms of peace: it shall stand between him and the bitter past: it shall lead him on to a worthy and happy future. There is one thing which he must do: I will strengthen him to do it. Yet, when I tell him all, how will he meet it? No matter; I must do right. I have walked through this cloud of misery--shall my courage fail me now? He came home, nor knew that I had been away. Something oppressed him: his old grief perhaps. My beloved! I have a balm even for that, now. * * * I told him the story, as it were in a parable, not of myself, but of another--a friend I had. His color came and went--his hands trembled in my hold. I hid nothing: I told of the wife's first horrible fear--of her misery--and the red flush mounted to his very brow. I could have fallen at his feet, and prayed forgiveness; but I dared not yet. At last I spoke of the end, still using the feigned names I had used all along. He said, hoarsely, "Do you think the wife--a good and pure woman--would forgive all this?" "Forgive! Oh! Laurence--Laurence!" and I clung to him and wept. A doubt seemed to strike him. "Adelaide--tell me--" "I have told. Husband, forgive me! I know all, and still I love you--I love you!" I did not say, _I pardon_. I would not let him think that I felt I had need to pardon. Laurence sank down at my feet, hid his face on my knees, and wept. * * * The tale of his youth was as I guessed. He told it me the same night, when we sat in the twilight gloom. I was glad of this--that not even his wife's eyes might scan too closely the pang it cost him to reveal these long-past days. But all the while he spoke my head was on his breast, that he might feel I held my place there still, and that no error, no grief, no shame, could change my love for him, nor make me doubt his own, which I had won. * * * * *