The sight of her wan face, and of her lovely lashes still moist with the tears she had shed, cut me like a knife. I did not dare to kiss her; I feared that she would awake and see my face, for I had looked at it in the glass, and was shocked at my haggard appearance. I stepped softly into the adjoining room where our little Clair was sleeping. She was rosy with health and young life, her red lips parted, showing her pearly teeth, her hair in clustering curls about her brow. Her I did not fear that I should awake, her slumbers were so profound, and I stooped and kissed her. "'Robert!' said my wife. "She had been awake when I entered her room, but had not opened her eyes lest she should offend me. Hearing me go into our child's bedroom, she had risen quietly and followed me. "'Lucy!' I replied, my hands upon her shoulders. "She fell into my arms, weeping, but no sound escaped her. Clair slept and must not be disturbed. "I drew her into our bedroom, and closed the door upon Clair. "'What is the matter, Lucy?' I asked. 'Are you not well?' "She lifted her wet eyes with a sad wonder in them. "'Did you not know, Robert?' "'Know! What?' "'That the doctor has been attending me lately,' she answered. 'Do not let it trouble you, dear. You also are not well. How changed you are! how changed! There is something on your mind, my dear." "She did not say this in reproach, but in loving entreaty and pity; and though she did not directly ask me to confide in her, I understood her appeal. But I did not dare to confess my folly and my shame. I had kept my secret well, and she did not suspect it. No, I would not expose my degradation to her and my child. Perhaps, when I had won back the fortune I had lost, when I could say, 'I have not completely ruined your future,' then I might find courage to tell her all. But now, when I was nearly beggared and fortune was in my grasp, I must be silent; my secret must be kept from her. "'It is nothing, Lucy,' I said; 'nothing. What does the doctor say?' "She withdrew from my embrace, and said, coldly I thought: "'I am not very well; that is all, Robert.' "Nothing more passed between us that night. I believed--because I wished to believe--that there was nothing serious the matter with her; and if I was right in my conjecture that she was cold to me, it sprang probably because I would not confess what was weighing on my mind.