was for
him to forgive;--and he was willing to do it, if she would accept
forgiveness. "I will never speak a word, Louis," she said, laying her
head upon his shoulder.

"Your heart is still hardened," he replied slowly.

"Hard to you?"

"And your mind is dark. You do not see what you have done. In our
religion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but with
repentance."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms with
joy, I cannot do so, till you have--confessed your fault."

"What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grieve
that it has been so."

"It is of no use," said he. "I cannot talk about it. Do you suppose
that it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?"

"What is it that you think, Louis?" As she had been travelling
thither, she had determined that she would say anything that he
wished her to say,--make any admission that might satisfy him. That
she could be happy again as other women are happy, she did not
expect; but if it could be conceded between them that bygones should
be bygones, she might live with him and do her duty, and, at least,
have her child with her. Her father had told her that her husband was
mad; but she was willing to put up with his madness on such terms as
these. What could her husband do to her in his madness that he could
not do also to the child? "Tell me what you want me to say, and I
will say it," she said.

"You have sinned against me," he said, raising her head gently from
his shoulder.

"Never!" she exclaimed. "As God is my judge, I never have!" As she
said this, she retreated and took the sobbing boy again into her
arms.

He was at once placed upon his guard, telling himself that he saw the
necessity of holding by his child. How could he tell? Might there not
be a policeman down from Florence, ready round the house, to seize
the boy and carry him away? Though all his remaining life should be
a torment to him, though infinite plagues should be poured upon his
head, though he should die like a dog, alone, unfriended, and in
despair, while he was fighting this battle of his, he would not give
way. "That is sufficient," he said. "Louey must return now to his own
chamber."

"I may go with him?"

"No, Emily. You cannot go with him now. I will thank you to release
him, that I may take him." She still held the little fellow closely
pressed in her arms. "Do not reward me for my courtes