Oh, why did the doctor hesitate a moment?  Why did he suffer his dread of losing Anna’s respect to triumph over every other feeling?  He had meant to tell her all, how he did love the gentle girl, the little more than child, who confided herself to him—­how he loved even her memory now far more than he loved ’Lina, but something kept the full confession back, and he answered: 

“I don’t know.  We must have money, and ’Lina is rich, while Lily was very poor, and the only friend or relation she knew was one with whom I would not dare have you come in contact, so wicked and reckless he was.”

This was what the doctor said, and into the brown eyes, now bloodshot and dim with anguish, there came the hard, fierce look, before which Alice Johnson once had shuddered, when Adah Hastings said: 

“I should hate him!  Yes, I should hate him!”

And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she did hate him.  She knew now that what she before would not believe was true.  He had not made her a lawful wife, else he had never dared to take another.

She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all consciousness forsook her, and she lay on her face insensible, while at the very last he did confess to Anna that Lily was his wife.  He did not say unlawfully so.  He could not tell her that.  He said: 

“I married her privately.  I would bring her back if I could, but I cannot, and I shall marry ’Lina.”

“But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously.  “I thought you told me once, that you won her love, and then, when mother’s harsh letters came, left her without a word.  Was that story false?”

The doctor was wading out in deep water, and in desperation he added lie to lie, saying: 

“Yes, that was false.  I tell you I married her, and she died.  Was I to blame for that?”

“No, no.  I’d far rather it were so.  I respect you more than if you had left her.  I am glad, not that she died, but that you are not so bad as I feared.  Sweet Lily,” and Anna’s tears flowed fast.

There was a knock at the door, and Jim appeared, inquiring if the doctor would have the carriage brought around.  It was nearly time to go, and with the whispered words to Anna, “I have told you what no one else must ever know,” the doctor descended with his sister to the parlor, where his mother was waiting for him.  The opening and shutting of the door caused a draught of air, which, falling on the fainting Adah, restored her to consciousness, and struggling to her feet, she tried to think what it was that had happened.

“Oh, George!  George!” she gasped.  “You are worse than I believed.  You have made me an outcast, and Willie—­”

George was a greater villain than she had imagined a man could be, and again her white lips essayed to curse him, but the rash act was stayed by the low words whispered in her ear, “Forgive as we would be forgiven.”

“If it were not for Willie, I might, but, oh! my boy, my boy disgraced,” was the rebellious spirit’s answer, when again the voice whispered, “And who art thou to contend against thy God?  Know you not that I am the Father of the fatherless?”