do not understand you at all, sometimes" she faltered, "not at all."

"But I understand you, God knows," he returned, bitterly. "Harriet,
little, suffering, wronged woman, I know something about you. I know
what has been worrying you so much since I came here."

She started and an awful look crept into her face.

"Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, do you?"

"Yes, I know it--that's enough now; let's agree never again to speak of
it. I don't want to talk about it, and I reckon you don't. Anyway, it
can't be helped."

"No, it can't be helped." Her lips began to twitch and quiver, and her
eyes went down.

"I understand it all now," she added. "And I don't blame you. I told
mother yesterday that I thought you might suspect--"

"Your mother knows then?"

"Yes, of course," raising her eyes in surprise.

For a moment they were silent. Westerfelt leaned against the
mantel-piece; he had never felt such utter despair. It was like being
slowly tortured to death to hear her speaking so frankly of the thing
which he had never been able to contemplate with calmness.

"So you see now that I'd better go back to the stable, don't you?" he