She could not bring herself to do so. Standing so high in his
esteem as she did, and conscious that he was thoroughly happy in his
appreciation of her feminine merit, she could not make him miserable
by descending from her pedestal to the telling of a story, which was
disgraceful in that it had not been told before.

And there was a peculiarity of manner in him of which she became day
by day more conscious. He could be very generous for good conduct
to those dependent on him, but seemed to be one who could with
difficulty forgive an injury. He wished to have everything about him
perfect, and then life should go as soft as a summer's day. He was
almost idolatrous to her in these first days of their marriage, but
then he had found nothing out. Cecilia knowing his character asked
herself after all what there was to be found out. How often that
question must occur to the girl just married. But there was nothing.
He was pleased with her person; pleased with her wit; pleased that
money should have been offered to him, and pleased that for the
present he should have declined it. He liked her dress and her
willingness to change any portion of it at his slightest hint. He
liked her activity and power of walking, and her general adaptability
to himself. He was pleased with everything. But she had the secret at
her heart.

"I wonder that you should have lived so long, and never have been in
love before," he said to her one day as they were coming home.

"How do you know?" She blushed as she answered him, but it was a
matter as to which any girl might blush.

"I am sure you were not. I should have heard it." And yet she was
silent. She felt at the moment that the time had come,--the only
possible time. But she let the moment pass by. Though she was ever
thinking of her secret, and ever wishing that she could tell it,
longing that it had been told, she could not bear that it should be
surprised from her in this way. "I think it nicer as it is," he added
as he left the room.

Then she got up and stood alone on the floor, thinking of it all.
There she stood for ten minutes thinking of it. She would follow him
and, not throwing herself on her knees--but standing boldly before
him, tell him all. There was no disgrace in it,--to have loved that
other man. Of her own conduct she was confident before all the world.
There had been so little secrecy about it that she almost had a right
to suppose that it had been known to all men. The