t he entertained a thought of her
being his daughter.

From that time his whole being seemed changed, for there was now an
object for which to live. Carefully had he guarded from his wife a
knowledge of his first marriage, for he dreaded her sneering
reproaches, and he could not hear his beloved Helena's name breathed
lightly by one so greatly her inferior. When he saw 'Lena, however,
his first impulse was to clasp her in his arms and compel his wife to
own her, but day after day went by, and he still delayed, hoping for
a more favorable opportunity, which never came. Had he found her in
less favorable circumstances, he might have done differently, but
seeing only the brightest side of her life, he believed her
comparatively happy. She was well educated, accomplished, and
beautiful, and so he waited, secure in the fact that he was near to
see that no harm should befall her. Once it occurred to him that
possibly he might die suddenly, thus leaving his relationship to her
a secret forever, and acting upon this thought, he immediately made
his will, bequeathing all to 'Lena, whom he acknowledged to be his
daughter, adding an explanation of the whole affair, together with a
most touching letter to his child, who would never see it until he
was dead.

This done, he felt greatly relieved, and each day found some good
excuse for still keeping it from his wife, who worried him
incessantly concerning his evident preference for 'Lena. Many and
many a time he resolved to tell her all, but as often postponed the
matter, until, with the broad Atlantic between them, he ventured to
write what he could not tell her verbally and, strange to say, the
effect upon his wife was far different from what he had expected.
She did not faint, for there was no one by to see her, neither did
she rave, for there was no one to hear her, but with her usual
inconsistency, she blamed her husband for not telling her before.
Then came other thoughts of a different nature. _She_ had helped to
impair 'Lena's reputation, and if disgrace attached to her, it would
also fall upon her own family. Consequently, as we have seen, she
set herself at work to atone, as far as possible, for her conduct.
Her husband had given her permission to wait, if she chose, until his
return, ere she made the affair public, and as she dreaded the
remarks it would necessarily call forth, she resolved to do so. He
had advised her to tell 'Lena, but she was gone--no one kn