"And what do you say about them?"

"I say they sometimes attached themselves to very clever women!"
I answered, laughing. I spoke with great deliberation,
but as my words fell upon the air they struck me as imprudent.
However, I risked them and I was not sorry, for perhaps
after all the old woman would be willing to treat.
It seemed to be tolerably obvious that she knew my secret:
why therefore drag the matter out? But she did not take what I
had said as a confession; she only asked:

"Do you think it's right to rake up the past?"

"I don't know that I know what you mean by raking it up;
but how can we get at it unless we dig a little?
The present has such a rough way of treading it down."

"Oh, I like the past, but I don't like critics," the old woman declared
with her fine tranquility.

"Neither do I, but I like their discoveries."

"Aren't they mostly lies?"

"The lies are what they sometimes discover," I said, smiling at the quiet
impertinence of this. "They often lay bare the truth."

"The truth is God's, it isn't man's; we had better leave it alone.
Who can judge of it--who can say?"