Whoso sheddeth his brother's blood--yes, but I was innocent of murderous design. Why, then, should I declare myself a murderer and bring despair upon Ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our child? Life-long despair, life-long ignominy. Every man's finger would be pointed at her. In my child's ears would ring the words, "Your father is a murderer!" Better for him never to have been born. I had not myself alone to think of, to act for, Ellen could never now be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. But for her, a lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my concealment of my crime. It would be necessary for me to keep apart from her, for in her presence I should be continually confronted by the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. Sweet and patient as she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities I should be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us, could not but injure me in her eyes. Setting love aside--an inconceivable hypothesis, for I never loved her as I did in this despairing hour--honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her the name of wife. She would grieve that I did not make amends to her for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that I should sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing me condemned for murder. For her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if they could be compassed. There had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. I was alone with the dead. The silence that reigned in the house favored my design of secret flight. If any persons resided there they must have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs, the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. I would make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited.