heart must have sunk many times, but whenever Fay looked up
she met the same tender, benignant look bent down upon her.

"Oh! why didn't I tell you before?" she said at last. "I always wanted
to, but I thought--at least I felt--I see I did you an injustice--I
thought you might press me to--to----"

"_To confess_," said Magdalen, her low voice piercing to Fay's very
soul.

"Y-yes, at least to say something to a policeman or someone, so that
Michael might be let out. I was afraid if I told you you would never
give me any peace till Michael was released."

"Have you _had_ any peace since he was put into prison?"

Fay shook her head.

"Make your mind easy, Fay, I shall never urge you to"--Magdalen
hesitated--"to go against your conscience."

"What would you have done in my place?" said Fay hastily.

"I should have had to speak."

"You are better than me, Magdalen, more religious. You always have
been."

"I should have had to speak, not because I am better or worse than you,
but simply because I could not have endured the misery of silence. It
would have broken me in two. And if I had not had the courage to speak
in Andrea's lifetime, I would have spoken directly he was dead, and have
released Michael and married him. You have not told me why you did not
do that."

"I never thought of it. I somehow regarded it as all finished. And I
have never even _thought_ of marrying Michael or anyone when I was left
a widow. I was much too miserable. I had had enough of being married."

There was a difficult silence.

"I should never have a moment's peace if--if I _did_ speak," said Fay at
last.

"Yes, you would," said Magdalen with sudden intensity. "That is where
peace lies."

Fay raised herself to her knees and looked into Magdalen's eyes. The
dawn had come up long ago, and in its austere light Magdalen's face
showed very sharp and white in a certain tender fixity and compassion.
She had seen that look once before in her husband's dying eyes. Now that
she was suddenly brought face to face with it again she understood it
for the first time. Had not Andrea's last prayer been that she might be
given peace!

CHAPTER XIX

There is no wild wind in his soul,
No strength of flood or fire;
He knows no force beyond control,
He feels no deep desire.

He knows no altitudes above,
No passions elevate;
All is but mockery of love,
And mimicry of hate.

--EDGAR VINE HALL