ifulness of it! For Maurice went
on, like any proud young father, with a story of how his little boy had
said this or done that. "But he's fresh, sometimes, and he's the kind
that, if he got fresh, ought to be licked. She can't make him mind;
but"--here the poor, shamed pride shone again in his blue eyes--"he
minds _me_!"

Mary Houghton was silent; she tried to consider the stars, but her
dismay at a child endangered, came between her and the eternal
tranquillities. "The boy must be saved," she thought, "at any cost! It
isn't a question of Maurice's happiness; it's a question of his
_obligation_."

"This thing of having a secret hanging round your neck is hell!" Maurice
told her. "Every minute I think--'Suppose Eleanor should find out?'"

Mrs. Houghton put her hand on his knee. "The only way to escape from the
fear of being found out, Maurice, _is to be found out_. Get rid of the
millstone. Tell Eleanor."

"You don't know Eleanor," he said, dryly.

"Yes, I do. She loves you so much that she would forgive you. And with
forgiveness would come helpfulness with the little boy. The child is the
important one--not you, nor Eleanor, nor the woman. Oh, Maurice, a
child is the most precious thing in the world! You _must_ save him!"

"Don't you suppose I want to? But, good God! I'm helpless."

"If you tell Eleanor, you won't be 'helpless.'"

"You don't understand. She's jealous of--of everybody."

"Telling her will prove to her she needn't be jealous of--this person.
And the chance to do something for you would mean so much to her. She
will forgive you--Eleanor can always do a big thing! Remember the
mountain? Maurice! Let her do another great thing for you. Let her help
you save your child, by making it possible for you to be open and
aboveboard, and see him all you want to--all you _ought_ to. Oh, Maurice
dear, it would have been better, of course, if you had told Eleanor at
first. You wouldn't have had to carry this awful load for all these
years. But tell her now! Give her the chance to be generous. Let her
help you to do your duty to the little boy. Maurice, his character, and
his happiness, are your job! Just as much your job as if he had been
Eleanor's child, instead of the child of this woman. Perhaps more so,
for that reason. Don't you see that? _Tell_ Eleanor, so that you can
save him!"

The appeal was like a bugle note. Maurice--discouraged, thwarted,
hopeless--heard it, and his heart quickened. This invert