"You would not have confessed the _truth_," Baird asked, in a hushed voice, "about what?" "Margery," answered Latimer. "Margery." He saw Baird make a slight forward movement, and he went on monotonously. "She did not die in Italy," he said. "She did not die lying smiling in the evening sun." "She--did not?" Baird's low cry was a thing of horror. "She died," Latimer continued, in dull confession, "in a log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. She died in anguish--the mother of an hour-old child." "My God! My God! My God!" Three times the cry broke from Baird. He got up and walked across the room and back. "Wait--wait a moment!" he exclaimed. "For a moment don't go on." As the years had passed, more than once he had been haunted by a dread that some day he might come upon some tragic truth long hidden. Here he was face to face with it. But what imagination could have painted it like this? "You think my lie--a damnable thing," said Latimer. "No, no!" answered the other man, harshly. "No, no!" He moved to and fro, and Latimer went on. "I never understood," he said. "She was a pure creature, and a loving, innocent one." "Yes," Baird groaned; "loving and innocent. Go on--go on! It breaks my heart--it breaks my heart!" Remembering that he had said "You might have been my brother," Latimer caught his breath in a groan too. He understood. He had forgotten-- forgotten. But now he must go on. "At home she had been always a bright, happy, tender thing. She loved us and we loved her. She was full of delicate gifts. We are poor people; we denied ourselves that we might send her to Boston to develop her talent. She went away, radiant and full of innocent gratitude. For some time she was very happy. I was making every effort to save money to take her abroad that she might work in the studios there. She had always been a delicate little creature--and when it seemed that her health began to fail, we feared the old terrible New England scourge of consumption. It always took such bright things as she was. When she came home for a visit her brightness seemed gone. She drooped and could not eat or sleep. We could not bear to realise it. I thought that if I could take her to France or Italy she might be saved. I thought of her day and night--day and night." He paused, and the great knot in his throat worked convulsively in the bondage of his shabby collar. He began again when he recovered his voice.