“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet it. “‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch her, “you don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God had forgotten that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin? Is it to _deceive_?” “‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to soothe her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she had told me frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and blameless. “‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed: “‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but, oh! I don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is worse, to deceive, or break a solemn vow?” “‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She only wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God had cast her off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her grief for many days, and then she settled down into a stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had been, because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, and would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking afar off as if in quest of some one who never came. “We thought when she came home that we had as much as we could bear, for a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving both ruin and disgrace, unless it were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the first of March we carried her there, taking every precaution that her treatment should be the kindest and most considerate.” “‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a memory of the past swept over me. “‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued: “‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and one day we went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I remember now a young girl with the most beautiful golden hair, but her face was resting on the window-sill, and she would neither look up nor answer my questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my excitement I could scarcely control myself to listen, while Richard continued: “‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any one.