"I don't know why I have felt forced to say all this to you to-day, Katharine. Something has forced me to say it, certainly. Think of it, my dear; and if there be any possible way to reconciliation with your home and your former life, turn your steps towards it." "Are you weary of the charge of me? are you tired of the thankless task?" He smiled, very slowly and tenderly; then rose; and, arranging some papers on his desk, said: "Do you think to turn away my meaning by such a silly subterfuge? I am going out now: think of what I have said, Katharine; and, remember, if I have hurt you, it is because of my ignorance. I don't reproach you that you have kept me in it; but you must not wonder if it sometimes tells against yourself. Be sure of this, Katharine, there is no life so acceptable as that in which we carry _our own_ burdens, without selecting them; and no spirit so safe as that which takes trials as they are sent, not sought for--kissing the rod." He was leaving the room, when she rose impetuously and went up to him. She caught his arm, and pressed it to her closely, as she said: "Don't say more to me now; I can't bear it. I wonder why you have spoken like this again--it is so long since you did so before. Let me go to your mother, and think it all out there--all you know and all you don't know; and when I come back I will tell you every thing." "My dear, you mistake me. I don't want to know; it is from no feeling of that kind I speak;--it is for your own sake, and because of the treacheries and changes of life----" "Yes, yes; I know. When had you any but good motives, or did any but good deeds? Just give me this little time, and keep your vow to me, that you will never answer a question about me, or give any human being a clue to finding me; and when I come back you shall know all, and judge for me." "Agreed," said Dr. Hudson; "I will keep my promise, and you will keep yours." A day or two later Katharine Streightley left Paris. "I give you my word of honour--I will take the most solemn and sacred oath you can dictate to me, that nothing you can tell me, of what I ask you, can harm the lady. I am here on behalf of her husband." "Her husband!" said Louise Hartmann, with a disdainful smile; "now I know you are deceiving me. She is a widow--her husband is dead." "Indeed--indeed he is not, my dear young lady; for God's sake listen to me! Her husband is alive, and he loves her better than his life. Indeed he is dying, I truly believe, because he cannot find or hear of her. A quarrel--a misunderstanding parted them, and he has sought her vainly ever since. Just think of the dreadful weary time, and have pity on this poor man." Charley Yeldham's friends would have been only less astonished than himself had they heard him thus eloquently pleading the cause of Robert to the inflexible little German girl, who stood before him, the very image of immovable fidelity.