; "how can I help giving you
my love and my gratitude? You have been to me a father and a
friend--"

"Say no more," said Obed, interrupting her. "It is enough. We will
forget that this conversation has taken place. And as for myself, I
will cherish your secret, my child. It is as safe with me as it would
be with yourself only."

Now as he spoke, with his frank, generous face turned toward her, and
the glow of affection in his eyes, Zillah felt as though it would be
better to give him her full confidence and tell him all. In telling
him that she was married she had made a beginning. Why should she not
tell every thing, and make known the secret of her life? It would be
safe with him. It would be a fair return for his generous affection.
Above all, it would be frank and honest. He would then know all about
her, and there would be nothing more to conceal.

Thus she thought; but still she shrank from such a confession and
such a confidence. It would involve a disclosure of all the most
solemn and sacred memories of her life. It would do violence to her
most delicate instincts. Could she do this? It was impossible. Not
unless Obed Chute insisted on knowing every thing could she venture
to lay bare her past life, and make known the secrets of her heart.
And she well knew that such a thing would never be required of her,
at least by this generous friend. Indeed, she knew well that he would
be most likely to refuse her confidence, even if she were to offer it
on such an occasion as this.

"I feel," said Zillah at length, as these thoughts oppressed her,
"that I am in a false position. You have been so generous to me that
you have a right to know all about me. I ought to let you know my
true name, and make you acquainted with the story of my life."

"You ought to do nothing of the sort," said Obed Chute. "There are
some things which can not be breathed to any human being. Do you
form so low an estimate of me, my dear child, as to think that I
would wish to have your confidence unless it was absolutely
necessary, and for your own good? No. You do not understand me. The
affection which I have for you, which you call generosity, gives me
no such claim, and it gives me no desire to tear open those wounds
which your poor heart must feel so keenly. Nothing can prevent my
loving you. I tell you you are my daughter. I accept you as you are.
I wish to know nothing. I know enough of you from my knowledge of
your character. I only k