"Let it pass," he answered, declining as usual to speak openly upon the dreaded subject; for, to him, every word, so spoken, seemed fraught with danger. "You can guess what I mean, I daresay: and the less said the better." "You seem always to blame me, Karl," she rejoined, her voice softening almost to tears. "Your own heart should tell you that I have cause." "It has been very hard for me to bear." "Yes; no doubt. It has hurt your pride." "And something besides my pride," rejoined Lucy, with a faint flush of resentment. "What has the bearing and the pain for you been, in comparison with what I have had to bear and suffer!" he asked with emotion. "I, at least, have not tried to make it worse for you, Lucy, though you have for me. In my judgment, we ought to have _shared_ the burden; and so made it lighter, if possible, for one another." Ay, sometimes she had thought that herself. But then her womanly sense of insult, her justifiable resentment, would step in and scatter the thought to the winds. It was too bad of Karl to reflect on her "pride." "Is it to last for ever?" she asked, after a pause. "Heaven knows!" he answered. "Heaven knows that I have striven to do my best. I have committed no sin against you, Lucy, save that of having married you when--when I ought not. I have most bitterly expiated it." He spoke like one from whom all hope in life has gone; his haggard and utterly spiritless face was bent downwards. Lucy, her love all in force, her conscience aroused, touched his hand. "If I have been more harshly judging than I ought, Karl, I pray you and heaven alike to forgive me." He gave no answer: but he turned his hand upwards so that hers lay in it. Thus they sat for some time, saying nothing. A singing bird was perched on a tree in front of them; a light cloud passed over the face of the blue sky. "But--you know, Karl," she began again in a half whisper, "it has not been right, or well, for--for those to have been at the Maze who have been there." "I do know it. I have repeatedly told you I knew it. I would almost have given my life to get them out. It will not be long now; I fear, one way or the other, the climax I have been dreading seems to be approaching." "What climax?" "Discovery. Bringing with it disgrace and pain and shame. It is when I fear that, Lucy, that I feel most bitterly how wrong it was of me to marry. But I did not know all the complication; I never anticipated the evils that would ensue. You must forgive me, for I did it three-parts in ignorance." He clasped her hand as he spoke. Her tears were gathering fast. Karl rose to depart, but she kept his fingers in hers, her tears dropping as she looked up at him. "I ask, Karl, if we are to live this kind of life for ever?" "As you shall will, Lucy. The life is of your choosing, not of mine."