“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your letter; she told me that you were her husband—all the time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it. What could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace him? Kill an innocent woman, perhaps? I loved you too well for that; so went away with my child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women cannot die when they wish. I was young and healthy; grief tortured me, but it could not quite kill the strong life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled for his sake. We went away into another State, and in the heart of a great city buried ourselves. I gave you up. I gave up your name and worked on through life alone. But God kept my son, and gave me grandchildren; the wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old memories? I have forgiven you long ago, James—long ago.” The old man listened to her patiently. Once or twice he started and checked some eager words as they sprang to his lips; but he restrained himself and heard her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her as he seated himself. “Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?” “Believe it? God help me, I knew it!” “Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have never loved any woman but you. I never had, and never will have another wife.” The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful appeal. “Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot bear it. Only ask me to forgive you, and I will. Indeed, I will.” “Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between us to forgive. I do not know how this terrible idea has been fastened on your mind; but, as God is my judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than I have been to you.” He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to his and found them full of tears. “James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The old woman fell down upon her knees before him, and pressed her two withered hands on his bosom. “Have I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh, my husband! I am so thankful that it is me!” He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that sweet, old face, with its crown of snowy hair, to his bosom; his tears fell over her; his hands shook like withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his heart. She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn love, which is so beautiful in old age, filled her heart with a joy that no young bride may even hope to know. “We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary; but God has given us to each other again, and the best part of our existence will be spent together.” “But I have cast away our youth, trampled down your mid-age; hid our son away from you, and now he is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish, the more piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor of old age.