“I must, God forgive me, I must. I thought it would be sin. But _that_ was long ago. It will be punishment. If I had known before--and I have been coming here time and again--looking on his happiness--but if I had once dreamt--and then only an hour ago--the oath at its baptism--O God!” Her tears were flowing again, but a sort of serenity had fallen on her now. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I tried to keep it to myself------” “You could not keep it; you ought never to have kept it so long; the finger of God Himself ought to have burnt it out of you.” He spoke harshly, and she felt pain; but there was a secret joy as well. “I am ruining you, Philip,” she said, leaning over him. “We are both drifting to ruin, Katherine,” he answered hoarsely. He was an abandoned hulk, with anchorage gone and no hand at the helm--broken, blind, rolling to destruction. “I can offer you nothing, Kate, nothing but a hidden life, a life in the dark. If you come to me you will leave a husband who worships you for one to whom your life can never be joined. You will exchange a life of respect by the side of a good man for a life of humiliation, a life of shame. How can it be otherwise now? It is too late, too late!” “Don't think of that, Philip. If you love me there can be no humiliation and no shame for me in anything. I love you, dear, I cannot help but love you. Only love me a little, Philip, just a little, dearest, and I will never care--no, I will never, never care whatever happens.” Her passionate devotion swept down all his scruples. His throat thickened, his eyes grew dim. She put one arm tenderly on his shoulder. “I will follow you wherever you must go,” she said. “You are my real husband, Philip, and always have been. We will love one another, and that will make up for everything. There is nothing I will not do to make you forget. If you must go away--far away--no matter where--I will go with you--and the child as well--and if we must be poor, I'll work with you.” But he did not seem to hear her as he crouched with buried face by the fire. And, in the silence, Pete's muffled voice came again through the wall, singing his rugged ditty-- “I'm not engaged to any young man, I solemnly do swear, For I mane to be a vargin and still the laurels wear.” Unconsciously their hands touched and their fingers intertwined. “It will break his heart,” he muttered. She only grasped his hand the closer, and crouched beside him. They were like two guilty souls at the altar steps, listening to the cheerful bell that swings in the tower for the happy world outside. The door opened with a bang, and Pete rolled in, heaving with laughter.