“Your sister has borne it for thirty-one years.  Are you less brave than she?”

“I don’t know.  Yes, I believe I am.  I have more at stake than she.  Our positions are not the same.  There is Geraldine, and Grey, I can never look them in the face again, knowing what I know,” Burton cried, impetuously, and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed as strong men never sob, save when some terrible storm, which they feel themselves inadequate to meet, is beating pitilessly upon them.

“Oh, brother,” Hannah said, in her soft, entreating voice, “this is worse than all the rest.  Don’t take it so hard.  It is not so bad as you think.  You will not be disgraced.  Geraldine will never know:  the world will never know.  Char—­Mr. Sanford is just as safe as I. He will never tell,” and the dark eyes looked for one moment at the man whom, in her excitement and forgetfulness, she had almost called by his Christian name, and who, in response to the call and the look, went to her side, and laying his hand upon her head, said, solemnly: 

“As heaven is my witness, what I have heard here to-night shall never pass my lips.”

Pressing his hand for an instant upon Hannah’s bowed head, he withdrew it, but staid at her side until the recital was ended, and the old man, who was sinking fast, said to him, in a faint whisper: 

“You know all now, and why I could not join the church.  It was too late to tell the world of my guilt.  God knew it.  I believe he has baptized me with His Holy Spirit.  Do you think that as His minister you can pray for my departing soul?”

“Yes, yes,” the clergyman replied, and falling upon his knees, for he saw in the pinched face the look he could not mistake, he began the prayer for the dying one, who whispered, faintly: 

“That is good, very good.  And now, Hannah, the Lord’s Prayer once more; it is the last.  We have said it many times together, you and I, when the night was blackest and we could think of nothing else.  Where are you, Hannah?” he added, in a tone of alarm, as if he had lost her.  “It is growing dark and I cannot see.  You must not leave me now.  We have kept together so long.”

“I am here, father; with my arm around your neck, and I am kissing your dear face,” Hannah said, and then, bending over him, she commenced the prayer they had so often said together when no other words would come.

Faintly the old man’s voice joined hers and that of the clergyman, and only Burton was silent.  He could not pray, but sat silent, while his father whispered at short intervals: 

“Forgive; yes, that’s the good word, and I am forgiven.  I feel it.  I know it.  Salvation is sure, even for me, and in heaven I shall wait and watch for you, Hannah, the best and truest daughter a man ever had.  Oh, God bless my Hannah, and grant that some joy, some happiness may come to her when I am gone; and Grey, the baby Grey, oh, bless him, too, with every needful blessing—­the baby Grey, whose little hands took the stain, the smart from mine—­my Grey, whom I love so much.”