'Does he think you ought to give back the money?' 'No,--not that. We are quite agreed about the money. But another question has come up;--and though we are, I believe, agreed about that too, still there has been something a little uncomfortable.' 'Would not baby make that all right?' 'I think if you were to ask your brother William it would be better.' 'May I not know what it is now, John?' 'I have meant you to know always,--from the moment when it occurred,--when you should be well enough.' 'I am well now.' 'I hardly know; and yet I cannot bear to keep it secret from you.' There was something in his manner which made her feel at once that the subject to which he alluded was of the greatest importance. Whether weak or strong, of course she must be told now. Let the shock of the tidings be what it might, the doubt would be worse. She felt all that, and she knew that he could feel it. 'I am quite strong,' she said; 'you must tell me now.' 'Is baby asleep? Put him in the cradle.' 'Is it so bad as that?' 'I do not say that it is bad at all. There is nothing bad in it,--except a lie. Let me put him in the cradle.' Then he took the child very gently and deposited him, fast asleep, among the blankets. He had already assumed for himself the character of being a good male nurse; and she was always delighted when she saw the baby in his arms. Then he came and seated himself close to her on the sofa, and put his arm round her waist. 'There is nothing bad--but a lie.' 'A lie may be so very bad!' 'Yes, indeed; and this lie is very bad. Do you remember my telling you--about a woman?' 'That Mrs. Smith;--the dancing woman?' 'Yes;--her.' 'Of course I remember.' 'She was one of those, it seems, who bought the Polyeuka mine.' 'Oh, indeed!' 'She, with Crinkett and others. Now they want their money back again.' 'But can they make you send it? And would it be very bad--to lose it?' 'They cannot make me send it. They have no claim to a single shilling. And if they could make me pay it, that would not be very bad.' 'What is it, then? You are afraid to tell me?' 'Yes, my darling,--afraid to speak to you of what is so wicked;--afraid to shock you, to disgust you; but not afraid of any injury that can be done to you. No harm will come to you.' 'But to you?' 'Nor to me;--none to you, or to me, or to baby there.' As he said this she clutched his hand with hers. 'No harm, dearest; and yet the thing is so abominable that I can hardly bring myself to wound your ears with it.' 'You must tell now, John.'