"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will make it. I was the only
man who knew he was innocent. I could have saved him, and--and--well,
you know how the town was wrought up--I hadn't the pluck to do it. It
would have turned everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean; ut I
didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face that."

Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent. Then she said
stammeringly:

"I--I don't think it would have done for you to--to--One
mustn't--er--public opinion--one has to be so careful--so--" It was a
difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got started
again. "It was a great pity, but--Why, we couldn't afford it, Edward--we
couldn't indeed. Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it for anything!"

"It would have lost us the good-will of so many people, Mary; and
then--and then--"

"What troubles me now is, what _he_ thinks of us, Edward."

"He? _He_ doesn't suspect that I could have saved him."

"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, "I am glad of that. As
long as he doesn't know that you could have saved him, he--he--well that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have known he didn't know,
because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as little
encouragement as we give him. More than once people have twitted me with
it. There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes, and the Harknesses, they take
a mean pleasure in saying '_Your friend_ Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liking us so; I can't think