that lawyer out West, who takes care of her money,
knows?"

"No." Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice. "This must be what she
is always afraid of remembering," she said.

"Pray God she never does remember," Henry said. "Poor little thing!
Here she is carrying a load on her back, and if she did but once turn
her head far enough to get a glimpse of it she would die of it. It's
lucky we can't see the other side of the moon, and I guess it's lucky
we haven't got eyes in the backs of our heads."

"You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to him," said
Sylvia.

Henry made an impatient motion. "Look here, Sylvia," he said. "I love
that young man like my own son, and your feeling about it is rank
idiocy."

"And I love her like my own daughter!" cried Sylvia, passionately.
"And I don't want to feel that she's marrying and keeping anything
back."

"Now, look here, Sylvia, here are you and I. We've got this secret
betwixt us, and we've got to carry it betwixt us, and never let any
living mortal see it as long as we both live; and the one that
outlives the other has got to bear it alone, like a sacred trust."

Sylvia nodded. Henry put out the kitchen lamp, and the two left the
room, moving side by side, and it was to each of them as if they were
in reality carrying with their united strength the heavy, dead weight
of the secret.

Chapter XIX

Henry, after the revelation which Sylvia had made to him, became more
puzzled than ever. He had thought that her secret anxiety would be
alleviated by the confidence she had made him, but it did not seem to
be. On the contrary, she went about with a more troubled air than
before. Even Horace and Rose, in the midst of their love-dream,
noticed it.

One day Henry, coming suddenly into the sitting-room, found Rose on
her knees beside Sylvia, weeping bitterly. Sylvia was looking over
the girl's head with a terrible, set expression, as if she were
looking at her own indomitable will. For the first time Henry lost
sight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman. He seemed to see her as a
separate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own ends,
which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly unknown to him.

Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him. "Oh, Uncle Henry," she
sobbed, "Aunt Sylvia is worrying over something, and she won't tell
me."

"Nonsense," said Henry.

"Yes, she is. Horace and I both know she is. She won't tell me what
it is. She goes a