und he was going to lay open to her eyes.

"Lucy. Do you know why I came to you to-night?"

She moved her lips repeating his words.

"Lucy. Have you guessed why I did not come before?"

Her head shook widened eyes.

"Lucy. I did not come because I was not worthy of my wife! Do you
understand?"

"Darling," she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching under him, "what
have I done to make you angry with me?"

"O beloved!" cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes. "O beloved!"
was all he could say, kissing her hands passionately.

She waited, reassured, but in terror.

"Lucy. I stayed away from you--I could not come to you, because... I
dared not come to you, my wife, my beloved! I could not come because I
was a coward: because--hear me--this was the reason: I have broken my
marriage oath."

Again her lips moved. She caught at a dim fleshless meaning in them. "But
you love me? Richard! My husband! you love me?"

"Yes. I have never loved, I never shall love, woman but you."

"Darling! Kiss me."

"Have you understood what I have told you?"

"Kiss me," she said.

He did not join lips. "I have come to you to-night to ask your
forgiveness."

Her answer was: "Kiss me."

"Can you forgive a man so base?"

"But you love me, Richard?"

"Yes: that I can say before God. I love you, and I have betrayed you, and
am unworthy of you--not worthy to touch your hand, to kneel at your feet,
to breathe the same air with you."

Her eyes shone brilliantly. "You love me! you love me, darling!" And as
one who has sailed through dark fears into daylight, she said: "My
husband! my darling! you will never leave me? We never shall be parted
again?"

He drew his breath painfully. To smooth her face growing rigid with fresh
fears at his silence, he met her mouth. That kiss in which she spoke what
her soul had to say, calmed her, and she smiled happily from it, and in
her manner reminded him of his first vision of her on the summer morning
in the field of the meadow-sweet. He held her to him, and thought then of
a holier picture: of Mother and Child: of the sweet wonders of life she
had made real to him.

Had he not absolved his conscience? At least the pangs to come made him
think so. He now followed her leading hand. Lucy whispered: "You mustn't
disturb him--mustn't touch him, dear!" and with dainty fingers drew off
the covering to the little shoulder. One arm of the child was out along
the pillow; the small hand open.