Could Anna have seen then into the darkness of the adjoining room, she would have shrunk in terror from the figure, which, as she asked _that_ question, struggled to its knees, and creeping nearer to the door, turned its white, spectral face toward her, listening eagerly for the answer. Oh, why did the doctor hesitate a moment? Why did he suffer his dread of losing Anna’s respect to triumph over every other feeling? He had meant to tell her all, how he did love the gentle girl, who confided herself to him—how he loved even her memory now far more than he loved ’Lina, but something kept the full confession back, and he answered, “_I don’t know._ We must have money, and ’Lina is rich, while Lily was very poor, and the only friend or relation she knew was one with whom I would not dare have you come in contact, he was so wicked and reckless.” This was what the doctor said, and into the brown eyes, now bloodshot and dim with anguish, there came the hard, fierce look, before which Alice Johnson once had shuddered, when Adah Hastings said, “I should hate him!” And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she did hate him. She knew now that what she before would not believe was true. He had not made her a lawful wife, else he had never dared to take another. She was a degraded creature, Willie a child of sin, and he had made them so. It was the bitterest dreg she had been forced to take, and for an instant, she forgot the God she served, forgot every thing save the desire to curse the man talking so calmly of her, as if her ruin were nought to him. But anon, the still small voice she always obeyed spoke to her tumultuous spirit, and the curse on her lips died away in the faint whisper, “Forgive me, Father, and forgive him, too.” She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all consciousness forsook her, and she lay on her face insensible, while at the very last he did confess to Anna that _Lily was his wife_. He did not say unlawfully so. He could not tell her that. He said, “I married her privately. I kept it from you all until she died. I would bring her back if I could, but I cannot, and I shall marry ’Lina.” “But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously, “I thought you told me once, that you won her love, and then, when mother’s harsh letters came, left her without a word. Was that story false?” The doctor was wading out in deep waters, and in desperation he added lie to lie, saying, huskily— “Yes, that was false. I tell you I married her, and she died. Was I to blame for that?” “No, no, oh, no. I’d far rather it were so. I respect you more than if you had left her. I am glad, so glad not that she died, but that you are not so bad as I feared. Sweet Lily,” and Anna’s tears flowed fast to the memory of the poor girl whose early grave she saw in fancy some where in a beautiful Greenwood.