All the past agony of her life seemed to discharge itself in these words. They saw what the woman had suffered, what wonderful virtues of patience and faith had been developed from the vice of her pride, and there was no heart in the company so stubborn as to refuse her honor. Gilbert's eyes were fixed on her face with an absorbing expression of reverence; he neither knew nor heeded that there were tears on his cheeks. The women wept in genuine emotion, and even the old lawyer was obliged to wipe his dimmed spectacles. Elisha rose, and approaching Alfred, asked, in a voice which he strove to make steady,--“Is all this true?” Alfred sank his head; his reply was barely audible,-- “She has said no more than the truth.” “Then,” said Elisha, taking her hand, “I accept you, Mary Barton, and acknowledge your place in our family.” Elisha's wife followed, and embraced her with many tears, and lastly Ann, who hung totteringly upon her shoulder as she cried,-- “Indeed, Mary, indeed I always liked you; I never wished you any harm!” Thus encouraged, Alfred Barton made a powerful effort. There seemed but one course for him to take; it was a hard one, but he took it. “Mary,” he said, “you have full right and justice on your side. I've acted meanly towards you--meaner, I'm afraid, than any man before ever acted towards his wife. Not only to you, but to Gilbert; but I always meant to do my duty in the end. I waited from month to month, and year to year, as you did; and then things got set in their way, and it was harder and harder to let out the truth. I comforted myself--that wasn't right, either, I know,--but I comforted myself with the thought that you were doing well; I never lost sight of you, and I've been proud of Gilbert, though I didn't dare show it, and always wanted to lend him a helping hand, if he'd let me.” She drew herself up and faced him with flashing eyes. “How did you mean to do your duty by me? How did you mean to lend Gilbert a helping hand? Was it by trying to take a second wife during my lifetime, and that wife the girl whom Gilbert loves?” Her questions cut to the quick, and the shallow protestations he would have set up were stripped off in a moment, leaving bare every cowardly shift of his life. Nothing was left but the amplest confession. “You won't believe me, Mary,” he stammered, feebly weeping with pity of his own miserable plight, “and I can't ask to--but it's the truth! Give me your Bible! I'll kiss the place you kissed, and swear before God that I never meant to marry Martha Deane! I let the old man think so, because he hinted it'd make a difference in his will, and he drove me--he and Dr. Deane together--to speak to her. I was a coward and a fool that I let myself be driven that far, but I couldn't and wouldn't have married her!”