"But, oh! what agony of remorse I have endured! The tortures of the lost
are not more intense than my sufferings have been! Think of my meeting
people day after day with the mark of Cain upon my brow, burning there
so hotly that it seemed as if you must all see it, and know my guilt.
How could I join myself to God's people with this sin unconfessed? I
could not, and yet, I feel in my heart that I am forgiven, washed in His
blood as white as snow, so that there is rest for me in Paradise. Still,
I must confess; I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but no
one else--not Grey--no, no, not the boy Grey, who loves me so much. His
life must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my
coffin. Oh, Grey! Grey! May God bless the boy and give him every needful
happiness, and make him so good and noble that his life will blot out
the stain upon our name.

"Father!" Burton cried, in a choking voice; "for pity's sake, have done,
and tell me what you mean! The suspense is terrible."

"I mean," and the old man spoke clearly and distinctly--"I mean that,
thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion, I killed a man in
the kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I
have slept over his grave ever since!"

"A murderer!" dropped from Burton Jerrold's pale lips; and "A murderer!"
was echoed in the next room by lips far whiter than Burton Jerrold's,
and which quivered with mortal pain as the boy Grey started from his
stooping position over the stove and felt that he was dying.

For Grey was there, and had been for the last few minutes, and had heard
the secret which he was not to know.