“Don’t catch me swallowing that,” muttered the Judge; “he love that putty head!” “Hush, father,” interposed Richard, and turning to Geraldine, he asked, “Did you suppose Esther and Hepsy would keep your secret always?” “I did not much care,” returned Geraldine. “If Lilian secured Lawrence, I knew the marriage could not be undone, and besides, I did not believe the old women would dare to tell, for I made them both think it was a crime punishable with imprisonment.” “And so it should be,” returned the Judge. “Every one of you ought to be hung as high as Haman. What’s that you are saying of Lilian?” he continued, as he caught a faint sound. Geraldine’s strength was leaving her fast, but she managed to whisper: “You must not blame Lilian. She is weak in intellect and believed all that I told her; of the fraud she knew nothing,—nothing. I went to a fortune-teller in Boston, and bade her say to the young lady I would bring her that though the man she loved was engaged to another, something wonderful, the nature of which she could not exactly foretell, would occur to prevent the marriage, and she would have him yet. I also gave her a few hints as to Lawrence’s personal appearance, taking care, of course, that she should not know who we were. Then I suggested to Lilian that we consult Mrs. Blank, who, receiving us both as strangers, imposed upon her credulous nature the story I had prepared. This is why Lilian became so quiet, for, placing implicit faith in the woman, she believed all would yet end well.” “You are one of the devil’s unaccountables,” exclaimed the Judge, and grasping her arm, he shook her again, but Geraldine did not heed it. The confession she had made exhausted her strength, and laying her head again upon the table, she fainted. Mr. Howell and her uncle carried her to her room, but it was Mildred’s hand which had bathed her head and spoke to her kindly when she came back to consciousness. Mildred, too, broke the news to the awakened Lilian, who would not believe the story until confirmed by Geraldine; then she wept bitterly, and upbraided her sister for her perfidy until the wretched woman refused to listen longer, and covering her head with the bedclothes, wished that she could die. She felt that she was everlastingly disgraced, for she knew no power on earth could keep the Judge from telling the shameful story to her Boston friends, who would thenceforth despise and shun her just as she deserved. Her humiliation seemed complete, and it was not strange that the lapse of two days found her in a raging fever, far exceeding in violence the one from which Lawrence was rapidly recovering. “I hope the Lord,” growled the Judge, “that the jade will get well pretty quick, or——” He did not say “or what,” for Edith, who was in his lap, laid her soft hand on his mouth, and looking mournfully in his face said: “You’ll never see my mamma and the baby.” “Why not?” he asked.