u think not?"--his eyes on the ground. "At all events,"--after a
pause,--"he is resting like a child now: it will not be easy to startle
him to any harsh reality, and," looking up, "I hope God may deal with
you, Mrs. Manning, as you deal with my father. Forgive me," as I began
to speak, "you do not know what this is to me. It makes me rough, I
know. I never yet have forgiven the woman that"----His mother? He caught
the look, stopped, pushed his hair back, caught his breath. "One thing
let me say," after a moment's silence. "You do not know my father. If he
wakens to find his wife is not what he thinks her, it will be too late
for me to warn you then. He has been hurt sore and deeply in his life.
Your chance is but once."

I did not reply to Robert Manning, nor was I offended: there was too
much solemnity in his coarseness. The man's affection for his father was
as part of his life-blood, I believed.

My husband came to me when he saw Robert go, and loosened my hands from
my face. I clung to him as I never did before.

"What is this hurt he talks of in your life, Daniel? Will I be enough to
take it out? Will I?"

He laughed, a low, constrained laugh, holding my shoulders as if I were
a bit of a child.

"God knows you are enough, Hetty. I never thought He'd send me this. Rob
has been talking to you? He"----

"He is bitter."

"He loves me,--poor Rob!"

"Tell me of those people that hurt you, as he says."

It was a prurient, morbid curiosity that had seized me. A sort of shiver
ran over his frame.

"Eh, what, Hetty?"--in a low voice. "Let that go, let that
go,"--standing silent a moment, looking down. "Why would we bring them
back, and hack over the old dead faults? Had _she_ no pain to bear? We
couldn't find that out to speak for her. But God knows it."

I might have known how my question would have ended; for, always, he
covered over the ill-doing of others with a nervous haste, with the
charity of a man himself sharply sensitive to pain.

"It is healthful to go back to past pain," I said, half dissatisfied.

"Is it so?"--doubtfully, as he turned away with me. "I don't know,
child. Now and then He has to punish us, or cut out a cancer maybe. But
for going back to gloat over the cure or the whip-lash----No; it will
keep us busy enough to find good air and food, every minute for itself";
and, with a ruddy, genial smile, he had stooped and kissed my forehead.

A year had passed since that night. I was standi