s. Everet looked at Irene wonderingly as she spoke. She had never
before thus unveiled her thoughts.

"He struck me," was her reply, "as a man who had passed through
years of discipline and gained the mastery of himself."

"I trust that it may be so," Irene answered, rather as if speaking
to herself than to another.

"As I grow older," she added, after a long pause, now looking with
calm eyes upon her friend, "and life-experiences correct my judgment
and chasten my feelings, I see all things in a new aspect. I
understand my own heart better--its needs, capacities and yearnings;
and self-knowledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery of
other souls. So a deeper self-acquaintance enables me to look deeper
into the hearts of all around me. I erred in marrying Mr. Emerson.
We were both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights and
opinions to come together in a union so sacred and so intimate. But,
after I had become his wife, after I had taken upon myself such holy
vows, it was my duty to stand fast. I could not abandon my place and
be innocent before God and man. And I am not innocent, Rose."

The face of Irene was strongly agitated for some moments; but she
recovered herself and went on:

"I am speaking of things that have hitherto been secrets of my own
heart. I could not bring them out even for you to look at, my
dearest, truest, best of friends. Now it seems as if I could not
bear the weight of my heavy thoughts alone; as if, in admitting you
beyond the veil, I might find strength to suffer, if not ease from
pain. There is no such thing as living our lives over again and
correcting their great errors. The past is an irrevocable fact. Ah,
if conscience would sleep, if struggles for a better life would make
atonement for wrong--then, as our years progress, we might lapse
into tranquil states. But gradually clearing vision increases the
magnitude of a fault like mine, for its fatal consequences are seen
in broader light. There is a thought which has haunted me for a year
past like a spectre. It comes to me unbidden; sometimes to disturb
the quiet of my lonely evenings, sometimes in the silent
night-watches to banish sleep from my pillow; sometimes to place
silence on my lips as I sit among cherished friends. I never
imagined that I would put this thought in words for any mortal ear;
yet it is coming to my lips now, and I feel impelled to go on. You
believe that there are, as you call them 'conjugal partne