"Your sister could not tell Mr. Alden what is not true. She is wholly innocent. She can never, thank God, have any misery that accrues to one who has committed an evil deed." "You know nothing," she repeated gently, "and, oh, I am in a terrible perplexity; I do not know what to do. I am in far greater straits than you know of, Mr. Durgan. You urge me to tell you--will you accept my confession in confidence? Otherwise--ah, if you tell Mr. Alden what I have already said, it seems to me that I shall die of grief and shame. I could never look my dear sister in the face again." "You have no choice now but to tell me. The life of an innocent man must be saved; your sister's name must be kept out of the trial. For their sakes I am bound to consult Mr. Alden about what you have already told me, unless, upon knowing your whole story, I think I am justified in keeping your secret. I am your friend. I can have no possible desire but to serve your sister and yourself." "But truth--justice? Would you sacrifice us to a fetish you call 'justice,' pretending it is God? I have always felt that you would not. Mr. Alden would, even if it cost him his own life." Durgan meditated on this aspect of Alden's character. He could perceive that from her point of view this characteristic made him terrible. In her trouble she had blindly put her finger on perhaps the main difference between the virtue of the South and that of the North. "Hermie has always told me that about him, but till this time I never entirely believed her. Now I do. The more he loved Hermie, the more---- Oh, Mr. Durgan, it is terrible to think of!" He looked down pityingly. "The thoughts that you are enduring, child, are too terrible for you to bear alone. You must trust me. We Southerners were never taught to think, as the Puritans did, that the whole heart of God could be translated into a human code. I am not as good a man as Alden, but if I were----" "Oh, I can trust you," she cried. "I know I can. And you are right--I must, I ought, to speak; but do not know how, or how much. Question me, and I will answer." "On what possible ground can you believe this of your sister?" "On the ground of her own confession. It is written and sealed up; I know where it is." She had again crouched down on the lower step, and her face was hidden; but her shaken voice was quite clear and resolute. Durgan was amazed into silence. The sun, in a dry, empty sky, had slowly descended to the dark rim of the Cherokee ridge. Now it seemed to set suddenly, and a cold shadow rose over Deer. Bertha saw nothing, but to Durgan the change in the atmosphere lent emphasis to her statement, and all the combative part of his nature rose up against it. He was convinced that there was no such confession. Chapter XXI OPENING THE PAST "Are you sure of what you tell me?" asked Durgan. Bertha answered: "Yes; I do not know what she wrote, but I am sure it was her confession."