“Why?” said she, in a low voice.

“Because he loves you, Amy,” said the dark woman, as her busy fingers stitched without pausing.

Amy Waring was perfectly calm.  The words seemed to give her soul delicious peace, and she waited to hear what her aunt would say next.

“I know that he loves you, from the way in which he spoke of you.  I know that you love him for the same reason.”

Aunt Martha went on working and rocking.  Amy turned pale.  She had not dared to say to herself what another had now said to her.  But suddenly she started as if stung.  “If Aunt Martha has seen this so plainly, why may not Lawrence Newt have seen it?” The apprehension frightened her.

A long silence followed the last words of Aunt Martha.  She did not look at Amy, for she had no external curiosity to satisfy, and she understood well enough what Amy was thinking.

They were still silent, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said the clear, hard voice of Aunt Martha.

The door opened—­the two women looked—­and Lawrence Newt walked into the room.  He shook hands with Aunt Martha, and then turned to Amy.

“This time, Miss Amy, I have caught you.  Have I not kept your secret well?”

Amy was thinking of another secret than Aunt Martha’s living in Front Street, and she merely blushed, without speaking.

“I tried very hard to persuade myself to come up here after I saw you at the window.  But I did not until the secret looked out of the window and revealed itself.  I came to-day to say that I am going out of town in a day or two, and that I should like, before I go, to know that I may do what I can to take Aunt Martha out of this place.”

Aunt Martha shook her head slowly.  “Why should it be?” said she.  “Great sin must be greatly punished.  To die, while I live; to be buried alive close to my nearest and dearest; to know that my sister thinks of me as dead, and is glad that I am so—­”

“Stop, Aunt Martha, stop!” cried Amy, with the same firm tone in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dismissed the insolent shopman, “how can you say such things?” and she stood radiant before her aunt, while Lawrence Newt looked on.

“Amy, dear, you can not understand.  Sons and daughters of evil, when we see that we have sinned, we must be brave enough to assist in our own punishment.  God’s mercy enables me tranquilly to suffer the penalty which his justice awards me.  My path is very plain.  Please God, I shall walk in it.”

She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly.  Whatever her offense was, she had invested her situation with the dignity of a religious duty.  It was clear that her idea of obedience to God was to do precisely what she was doing.  And this was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring’s mind that she was perplexed how to act.  She knew that if her aunt suspected in her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode, she would disappear at once, and elude all search.  And to betray it while it was unreservedly confided to her was impossible for Amy, even if she had not solemnly promised not to do so.