As old Adam’s kindly wife threw back the dark cloak which had enveloped the fair young face and form, an exclamation of surprise broke from her wondering lips.

“She is a stranger hereabouts,” she observed, but she wisely obeyed her husband’s injunctions, making no further remark, knowing she would hear all about it in good time.

In less time than it takes to tell it, the beautiful young stranger was put to bed in the little spare room up under the eaves, wrapped in flannel blankets, with bottles of hot water at the feet, and a generous draught of brandy, which the grave digger’s wife always kept in the house for emergencies, forced down her throat.

“She will soon return to consciousness now,” she exclaimed to her husband, who stood beside the bedside anxiously watching her labors; “see that flush on her cheeks.  We will sit down quietly and wait until she opens her eyes.  It won’t be long.”

And while they waited thus, Adam told his wife the story he had to tell concerning the young girl—­this fair, hapless, beautiful young stranger whose wedding he had witnessed and burial he had assisted in within the hour, first binding his wife to solemn secrecy.

The good woman’s amazement as she listened can better be imagined than described.  For once in her life she was too dumfounded to offer even a theory.

As they glanced toward the bed, to their amazement they saw the girl’s eyes fastened upon old Adam with an expression of horror in them, heartrending to behold, and they realized that she had heard every word he had said.

In an instant they were on their feet bending over the couch.

“Is it true—­they buried me—­and—­you—­you—­rescued me?” she asked, in a terrified whisper, catching at the old man’s hands and clutching them in a grasp from which he could not draw them away, her teeth chattering, her violet eyes almost bulging from their sockets.

“Since you have heard all, I might as well confess that it is quite true,” he answered.  “And God forgive that brute of a husband you just married.  He ought to swing for the crime as sure as there is a heaven above us.  There will be no end of the good minister’s wrath when he hears the story, my poor girl.”

Again the beautiful young stranger caught at his hands.

“He must never know!” she cried, incoherently.  “Promise me, by all you hold dear, that both you and your wife will keep my secret—­will never reveal one word of what has happened this night.”

“It is not right that we should keep silent upon such an amazing procedure.  That would be letting escape the man who should be punished, if there is any law in the land to reach him for committing such a heinous crime.”

“I plead with you—­I, who know best and am the one wronged, and most vitally interested, to utter no word that would cause the story to become blazoned all over the world.  Let me make my words a prayer to you both—­to keep my pitiful secret.”