“Well, mother, if you keep the secret the catastrophe you dread will never happen,” said Clara. “You have only to keep it faithfully, and all will be well.” “That’s very fine,” said the little woman; “but the secret worries me. Why should the boy be cut out of his own?” “It is absolutely necessary that for the present he must remain unknown to his relatives,” said Clara. “It is a deep and a dreadful plot, mother, but it is too late to go back now. I may as well confess that I am bitterly sorry I ever took part in it.” “It’s worse than a plot—it’s a black crime,” said the little woman. “Why, there’s the mother of the boy mourning him as if he were dead, and there was the old housekeeper crying fit to break her heart, and the young lady who has come in for all the money, she looked as sad as sad could be when she spoke of him, and they’re putting up a tablet to him in the old church. Clary, it’s past bearing. ’Tain’t likely as I’ll keep it burdening my soul. Even for you I can’t do that.” “You’ll do great and terrible mischief if you let out what you know,” said Clara. “But why did you do it, Clary? ’Pon my word, to think that a girl of mine should have grown up such a desperate woman. You was always masterful as a little ’un, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to open sin—the sort of sin, that means, to be tried and put in prison. Why, it’s very near murder. What do it all mean, Clary?” “It means something dreadful,” said Mrs. Tarbot; “but I have put my hand to it, and it is too late to turn back now.” “But why did you do it?” “Look at me, mother.” “I do look at you. I’m a-staring at you, and I don’t think you look at all well. You’re drawn and pale in the face past knowing. It’s ugly to see the skin stretched as tight as that. To be sure, you has a beautiful dress on, far too grand for my taste—it looks something like a snake’s skin. Why on earth did you choose that color? Oh, dearie me, Clara, I wouldn’t know you. I never did think you’d grow up so wicked. It’s a pity the good God didn’t take you when you was so bad with the croup that time, when you was a little mite. Oh, I prayed mighty ’ard that you might be spared, but I wish now to my heart that I hadn’t.” “There’s no good in regretting the past, mother. I am as I am. I don’t pretend to be a good woman.” “No, that you ain’t. You’re a rare bad ’un. I wish I’d never brought you into the world. It’s terrible to think what you ha’ done—it’s terrible.” The poor old lady began to sob; she was shaken to her very depths. Presently she raised her trembling old hand, and laid it on her daughter’s cold fingers. “Give it up, Clary,” she said. “Confess your sin, and give it up.” “I cannot do what you want, mother.” “Why can’t you?” “I cannot.” “You haven’t told me yet why you done it at all.” “Very well, I’ll tell you. I suppose I was mad at the time. Mother, did you ever love anybody?”