e of mind," I answered, "to allow this
interview to continue. I must try to recover my composure; and I leave
you to do the same."

In the solitude of my room, I was able to look my position fairly in the
face.

Mr. Gracedieu's wife had come to me, in the long-past time, without her
husband's knowledge. Tempted to a cruel resolve by the maternal triumph
of having an infant of her own, she had resolved to rid herself of the
poor little rival in her husband's fatherly affection, by consigning the
adopted child to the keeping of a charitable asylum. She had dared to
ask me to help her. I had kept the secret of her shameful visit--I can
honestly say, for the Minister's sake. And now, long after time had
doomed those events to oblivion, they were revived--and revived by me.
Thanks to my folly, Mr. Gracedieu's daughter knew what I had concealed
from Mr. Gracedieu himself.

What course did respect for my friend, and respect for myself, counsel
me to take?

I could only see before me a choice of two evils. To wait for
events--with the too certain prospect of a vindictive betrayal of my
indiscretion by Helena Gracedieu. Or to take the initiative into my own
hands, and risk consequences which I might regret to the end of my life,
by making my confession to the Minister.

Before I had decided, somebody knocked at the door. It was the
maid-servant again. Was it possible she had been sent by Helena?

"Another message?"

"Yes, sir. My master wishes to see you."

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE GIRLS' AGES.

Had the Minister's desire to see me been inspired by his daughter's
betrayal of what I had unfortunately said to her? Although he would
certainly not consent to receive her personally, she would be at liberty
to adopt a written method of communication with him, and the letter
might be addressed in such a manner as to pique his curiosity. If
Helena's vindictive purpose had been already accomplished--and if Mr.
Gracedieu left me no alternative but to present his unworthy wife in her
true character--I can honestly say that I dreaded the consequences, not
as they might affect myself, but as they might affect my unhappy friend
in his enfeebled state of body and mind.

When I entered his room, he was still in bed.

The bed-curtains were so drawn, on the side nearest to the window, as to
keep the light from falling too brightly on his weak eyes. In the shadow
thus thrown on him, it was not possible to see his face plainly enough,