The transportation up to the second story was slow and difficult. Mrs. Wayt supported her husband’s head, and, like a flash, recurred to March Hester’s sneer of the task laid upon “his wife, his wife’s sister, and the family factotum.” It must have been barely accomplished on the July night when he and May brought Hester home, and Hetty ran down out of breath, her hair disheveled and eyes scared! That _her_ hands should be fouled by such a burden! His face was set whitely, as, having deposited the load upon the bed, he accosted the wife: “Would you like to have a physician?” His tone was hard and constrained. She did not look up. “You are very good but it is not necessary—thank you! I have seen him as ill before from the same cause and know what to do for him. And he is morbidly sensitive with regard to these attacks. He thinks it would injure him in his profession if the impression were to get abroad that his health is unsound or his constitution breaking up. I shall not even dare tell him that you have seen him to-night.” She was putting extraordinary force upon herself, but she could not meet his eye. “I cannot thank you just now as I would, Mr. Gilchrist. I am all unnerved, and although I know this seizure is not dangerous, it is a terrible ordeal to me to witness it. May I ask that you will not mention it, even to Judge and Mrs. Gilchrist? My husband would be mortified and distressed beyond measure were his illness the subject of even friendly remark.” March hesitated, and she turned upon him quickly. Her face was that of an old woman—gray, withered, and scored with lines, each one of which meant an agony. His resolution dissolved like the frost before fire. “You may depend upon my discretion and friendship,” he said impulsively. She burst into tears, the low, convulsive sobbing he had heard above stairs on that other night. Unable to bear more he ran down the staircase, and recognized before he reached the foot that he had committed himself to a lie. “Mr. Gilchrist!” His hand was upon the lock of the front door when he caught the low call. Hetty stood upon the threshold of the library, a shadowy figure in white that seemed to waver in the uncertain light. “I should like to speak to you, if you can spare a few minutes,” she pursued, leading the way into the room. With a bow of acquiescence he sat down and waited for her to begin. His mind was in a tumult; dumb pain devoured him. He felt as any honorable man might feel who condones a felony. CHAPTER IX “MY sister has begged you to keep secret what you have seen to-night—has she not?” was Hetty’s first inquiry, spoken without haste and without excitement. A mute bow replied. “And you have promised to do it?” “I told Mrs. Wayt that she might depend upon my discretion.” “Which she construes into a pledge to connive at a wrong done to a church and a community,” in precisely the same tone and manner as before.