"Oh, Karl, this is dreadful," she sobbed. "What must you have thought of me all this time? I almost wish I could die!" "You still care for me, then; a little?" With a burst of anguish she turned and hid her face upon his breast. "I have only loved you the better all the while," she whispered. "Lucy, my dear, I say we shall not get to the end in this way. Look up. If you were in ignorance of my brother's existence, and of all the complications for you and for me that it involved, what then was it that you were resenting?" "Don't ask me, Karl," she said, her face growing scarlet again. "I could not tell you for the very shame." He drew a little away, making a movement to put her from him. Never had his countenance been so stern to her as it was now; never could he be so little trifled with. "If there is to be an explanation between us, Lucy, it must be full and complete. I insist upon its being so. If you refuse to give it now--why, I shall never ask you for it again. Do you not think you owe me one?" Again she bent her face upon him. "I owe you everything, Karl; I owe you more reparation than I can ever pay. Never, as long as our lives shall last, will I have a secret from you again, heaven helping me. If I hesitate to tell you this, it is because I am ashamed for you to know how foolish I could be, and the wicked thoughts I could have." "Not more foolish or wicked, I dare say, than I was for making you my wife. Speak out, Lucy. It must be so, you see, if there is to be a renewal of peace between us." Keeping her head where it was, her face hidden from him, Lucy whispered her confession. Karl started from her in very astonishment. "Lucy! You could think that! Of me!" She put up her hands beseechingly. "Oh, forgive me, Karl; for the sake of the pain, forgive me! It has been killing me all the while. See how worn and thin I am." He put his arm out and drew her to his side. "Go on, my dear. How did you pick up the notion?" "It was Theresa." And now that the ice was broken, anxious to tell all and clear herself, Lucy described the past in full: the cruel anguish she had battled with, and her poor, ever-to-be renewed efforts to endure patiently, for his sake and for God's. Karl's arm involuntarily tightened around her. "Why did you not speak to me of this at once, Lucy?" he asked, after a pause. "It would have cleared it up, you see." "I did speak to you, Karl; and you seemed to understand me perfectly, and to accept it all as truth. You must remember your agitation, and how you begged me not to let it come to an exposure." "But I thought you alluded to the trouble about my poor brother; that it was the fact of his being alive you had discovered and were resenting. _That_ was the exposure I dreaded. And no wonder: for, if it had come, it would have sent him back to Portland Island."