Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps,
Entered a door, and closed it after them--
A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me.
I had my secret; and I kept it, too.
I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me,
Till doubt and prayers for doubt,--pale flowers
I nourished with my tears--were crushed
By the relentless hand of Certainty.

Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days.
My wrongs and all their shameful history
Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf,
Though he had only shown their title-page:
That page was his; the rest were in my heart.
I knew that he had left my home for hers;
I knew his nightly labor was to feed
Other than me;--that he was loaded down
With cares that were the price of sinful love.

_Mary_.

Grace, in your heart do you believe all this?
I fear--I know--you do your husband wrong.
He is not competent for treachery.
He is too good, too noble, to desert
The woman whom he only loves too well.
You love him not!

_Grace_.