"It was more than a fault; you know that, uncle. Your conscience could not
have borne it for an hour."

"Your sin, then. A habit of confession is debilitating and dangerous. God
has heard you, and I, who alone in this world could have the right to
reproach you, have said to you, Go in peace. Peace let it be, and silence,
which is the safest seal of a true confession."

"Do you mean that I am never to let myself be known as I am?" asked Daphne.
Her face had changed; it wore a look of fright and resistance. "Why,
that would mean that I am never to unmask; to go about all my life in my
trappings of false widowhood. You read what that paper called me! I cannot
play the part any longer."

"Are you speaking with reference to these strangers? But this will soon be
over, dear. We shall soon be at home, where no one thinks of us except as
they have known us all their lives. It will be painful for a little while,
this conspicuousness; but these good people will soon pass out of our
lives, and we out of theirs. Idle speculation will have little to do with
us, after this."

"There will be always speculation," implored the girl. "It will follow me
wherever I go, and all my life I shall be in bondage to this wretched
lie. Take back the money, uncle, and give me the price I paid for it,--my
freedom, myself as I was before I was tempted!"

"Ah, if that could be!" said the old gentleman. "Is it my poor boy's memory
that burdens you so? Is it that which you would be freed from?"

"From doing false homage to his memory," Daphne pleaded. "I could have