e to
conceal the contempt and aversion which this confession of her husband's
inspired.

"Well, yes, a man doesn't put himself in jeopardy like that for nothing.
He was to give me a certain sum of money down the first night that Mrs.
Holbrook slept in my house; and another sum of money before he went to
America, and an annual sum for continuing to take care of her, if he
wanted to keep her quiet permanently, as he might. Altogether it would be
a very profitable business, he told me, and I ought to consider myself
uncommonly lucky to get such a chance. As to the kindness or unkindness
of the matter, it was better than shutting her up in a lunatic asylum, he
said; and he might have to do that, if I refused to take her. She was
very weak in her head, he said, and the doctors would throw no difficulty
in his way, if he wanted to put her into a madhouse."

"But you must have known that was a lie!" exclaimed Ellen indignantly.
"You had seen and talked to her; you must have known that Mrs. Holbrook
was as sane as you or I."

"I couldn't be supposed to know better than her own father," answered Mr.
Whitelaw, in an injured tone; "he had a right to know best. However, it's
no use arguing about it now. He had such a power over me that I couldn't
go against him; so I gave in, and Mrs. Holbrook came to Wyncomb. She was
to be treated kindly and made comfortable, her father said; that was
agreed between us; and she has been treated kindly and made comfortable.
I had to trust some one to wait upon her, and when Mr. Nowell saw the two
girls he chose Sarah Batts. 'That girl will do anything for money,' he
said; 'she's stupid, but she's wise enough to know her own interest, and
she'll hold her tongue.' So I trusted Sarah Batts, and I had to pay her
pretty stiffly to keep the secret; but she was a rare one to do the work,
and she went about it as quiet as a mouse. Not even mother Tadman ever
suspected her."

"It was a wicked piece of business--wicked from first to last," said
Ellen. "I can't bear to hear about it."

And then, remembering that the sinner was so near his end, and that this
voluntary confession of his was in some manner a sign of repentance, she
felt some compunction, and spoke to him in a softer tone.

"Still I'm grateful to you for telling me the truth at last, Stephen,"
she said; "and, thank God, there's no harm done that need last for ever.
Thank God that dear young lady did not lose her life, shut up a prisoner
in