"I am a widow, sir." Thus she began with studied simplicity. "With
my one child I have been living in Detroit these many years,--ever
since my husband's death, in fact. We are not unliked there, nor
have we lacked respect. When some six months ago, your son, who
stands high in every one's regard, as befits his parentage and his
varied talents, met my daughter and fell seriously in love with
her, no one, so far as I know, criticised his taste or found fault
with his choice. I was happy, after many years of anxiety; for I
idolised my child and I had suffered from many apprehensions as to
her future. Not that I had the right to be happy; I see that now.
A woman with a secret,--and my heart held a woful and desperate
one,--should never feel that that secret lacks power to destroy
her because it has long lain quiescent. I thought my child safe,
and rejoiced as any woman might rejoice, and as I would rejoice
now, if Fate were to obliterate that secret and emancipate us all
from the horror of it."

She paused, waiting for some acknowledgment of his interest, but
not getting it, went on bitterly enough, for his stolidity was a
very great mystery to her:

"And she WAS safe, to all appearance, up to the very morning of
her marriage--the marriage of which you say you had received no
intimation though Oliver seems a very dutiful son."

"Madam!"--The hoarseness of his tone possibly increased its
peremptory character--"I really must ask you to lay aside your
veil."