COLERIDGE. "My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any foul act; but the virtuous know 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame." SHIRLEY. Robert came back at last, and years seemed to have swept over his head and gathered round his heart, since only a few hours before he had stood in his wife's room. But he looked for her in vain, she was not there, but away in the nursery, hushing, with tearful eyes and frightened heart, poor sick Bertie in her arms to sleep. Robert longed, yet dreaded to see her. Through all his misery his heart clung to his wife, and hoped, even when his lips murmured there was no hope. He took up the work on the table, a handkerchief Amy had been hemming, marked with his name, and sighed as he laid it down, and thought duty, not love, had induced her to work for him. So he waited on--waited patiently. At length she came. "Oh, Robert! I am so glad you are here. I have been longing for you, and quite frightened when you stayed away such a time." The mother's fears were roused, and she clung at once to her husband for help and support. Her trembling heart had forgotten for the moment all she had been braving her heart, and nerving her mind to tell him. The great fear supplanted for the time the lesser and more distant one. She had seated herself at Robert's feet, leaning her head on his knee. He let her remain so--did not even withdraw the hand she had taken, for the fierceness of his anger had passed away, and a great sorrow filled his heart. Did he not pity her as much as himself? she so fair and young. Had not she made them both miserable? Both he and her. But Amy saw nothing of all this--nothing of the grave, sorrowing face--her heart was thinking of poor Bertie's heavy eyes and hot hands, and how best she could break it to her husband, so as not to grieve him too much, for did he not love the boy as much as she did? and would he not fear and dread the worst? But even while she hesitated, her husband spoke-- "Amy! Have you ever deceived me? I, who have loved you so faithfully." The cold, changed tone--the harsh voice struck her at once. She looked up quickly. There was that in his face which sent dismay into her heart, while her fears for Bertie fled as she gazed. Was she too late? Had her husband found out what she had been striving so hard for months to tell him? Yes, she felt, she knew she was too late; that he knew all, and waited for her words to confirm what he knew. "Never as your wife, Robert," she replied, tremblingly. "And when, then!" "Oh, Robert! don't look so sternly at me--don't speak so strangely. I meant to tell you, I did indeed. I have been striving all these months to tell you." Alas! there was something to tell, then; every word she uttered drove away hope more and more from his heart. "Months and years?" he said, mournfully.