she made me answer:-

"If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir,
after knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but
I am so foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain
hope to find a friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although
you may no longer feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon
us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell us where to go for
aid."

"I implore you to tell me what this mystery is," I cried, almost
maddened by this suspense.

"I cannot," said she, solemnly. "I am under a deep vow of secrecy.
If you are to be told, it must be by her." She left the room, and I
remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically
turned over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the
time, examined the tokens of Lucy's frequent presence in that room.

When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of
a pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned;
she had been crying sadly.

"Yes," said she, "it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she
is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she
acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a
balm, if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning;
and, as you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of
fear or repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted."