But I still staid--still looked. Despite my horror of the crime, I felt a sort of attraction: it was some sign of grace in the man that he should at least acknowledge and show kindness to his child. And the miserable mother! I, a happy wife, could have wept to think of her. I wondered, did he think of her, too? He might; for, though the boy laughed and chattered, lavishing on him all those pet diminutives which children make out of the sweet word "father," I did not hear _this_ father answer by a single word. Louisa came to hurry me away. "Hush!" I said: "one moment and I will go." The little one had ceased chattering: the father put it down, and came forth from his covert. Heaven it was _my husband_! * * * I think I should then have fallen down dead, save for one thing--I turned and met my sister's eyes. They were full of horror--indignation--pity. She, too, had seen. Like lightning there flashed across me all the future: my father's wrath--the world's mockery--_his_ shame. I said--and I had strength to say it quite calmly--"Louisa, you have guessed our secret; but keep it--promise!" She looked aghast--confounded. "You see," I went on, and I actually smiled, "you see, I know all about it, and so does Laurence. It is--a friend's child." May heaven forgive me for that lie I told: it was to save my husband's honor. Day after day, week after week, goes by, and yet I live--live, and living, keep the horrible secret in my soul. It must remain there buried forever, now. It so chanced; that after that hour I did not see my husband for some weeks: Louisa and I were hastily summoned home. So I had time to think what I was to do. I knew all now--all the mystery of his fits of gloom--his secret sufferings. It was remorse, perpetual remorse. No marvel! And for a moment my stern heart said, "Let it be so." I, too, was wronged. Why did he marry me, and hide all this? O vile! O cruel! Then the light broke on me: his long struggle against his love--his terror of winning mine. But he did love me: half-maddening as I was, I grasped at that. Whatever blackness was on the past, he loved me now--he had sworn it--"more than he ever loved woman." I was yet young: I knew little of the wickedness of the world; but I had heard of that mad passion of a moment, which may seize on a heart not wholly vile, and afterward a whole lifetime of remorse works out the expiation. Six years ago! he must have been then a mere boy. If he had thus erred in youth, I, who knew his nature, knew how awful must have been the repentance of his manhood. On any humbled sinner I would have mercy--how much rather must I have mercy on _my husband_? I _had_ mercy. Some, stern in virtue, may condemn me--but God knoweth all. He is--I believe it in my soul--he is a good man now, and striving more and more after good. I will help him--I will save him. Never shall he know that secret, which out of pride or bitterness might drive him back from virtue, or make him feel shame before me.