“The idea that you should have anything to confess! It is impossible, Abel!” she said, as she sank back on her pillow and lay quietly as he had told her to do. “Yes, Elfrida! Confession for confession! for I knew your secret when we married, but I never let you suspect that I knew it.” “How?” she breathed, in wonder. “Your father told me, when I asked him for your hand. The late earl had insight enough into character to see that he could trust me; that I could never blame you for the deception he believed had been practiced upon you; that I should consider you as truly an honorable widow as if the marriage you believed to have been a fraud, had been as legal a bond as it is now proved to have been!” “What—what are you saying, Abel? I—I—cannot comprehend.” “I am telling you that Saviola married you in good faith, and that your marriage was as lawful as heaven and earth could make it! But lie still, keep quiet, and let me tell my story in my own way. You will then be able to comprehend it better.” “I will try,” she said, settling herself once more. “You will remember that when I asked your father for your hand he said that he must have a talk with you before he could give an answer.” “Yes, he told me so, when he came to talk with me of your proposal.” “You remember that you refused me, all on account of that secret, which you would not reveal. I, not knowing why you refused me, but certainly knowing that you returned my love, declined to take no for an answer, and so I continued to be a member of your father’s traveling party.” “Yes.” “After some weeks I again renewed my proposal for your hand to the earl, your father, begging his intercession with you on my behalf. It was then that he took me into his confidence and told me of the false marriage into which—he believed—you had been led while yet a young, motherless girl in the schoolroom, and of the child that had been born of that marriage, and finally of the death of the man who had perpetrated the supposed wrong.” “It must have been a great shock to you.” “A shock that was without the least blame to you, my darling wife; so that when I recovered from it I told your father that you were in my eyes a blameless widow, and that I should be the proudest and happiest man alive if I could be blessed with your love and honored with your hand.” “Oh, Abel! Generous soul!” “He then told me where the difficulty lay—that you imagined yourself so—so—well, so injured by the wrong which had been done you—or which you believed had been done you—that you could never bring yourself either to reveal it to me, or to marry me without having revealed it.” “No, I could not—I could have died, or lived in misery sooner.” “So your father told me. But I was a young man, in love, my dearest, and therefore ready with expedients. I said to the earl: “‘I see a way out of all this.’ “He replied: “‘Tell me, for I see none.’ “I answered: