“I am so wretched—­so full of pain.  I have heard of something dreadful,” she replied—­“something which took my life away.  I could not stay there after that, and so I come to you.  I am not Wilford’s wife, for he had another, before me—­a wife in Italy—­who is not dead!  And I—­oh!  Morris, what am I?  Untie my bonnet, do!  It is choking me to death!  I am—­yes—­I am—­going—­to faint!”

It was the first time Katy had put the great horror in words addressed to another, and the act of doing so made it more appalling, while the excitement and fatigue she had endured, together with the action of the heat upon her chilled system, took her strength away, and into the chair where Morris had so often seen her in fancy, she sank a crumpled heap of cloaks and furs and bonnet, which Morris tried to remove so as to reach the limp, fainting creature which had said:  “I am not Wilford’s wife, for he had another before me—­a wife in Italy—­who is not dead.”

Dr. Morris was thoroughly a man, and though much of his sinful nature had been subdued, there was enough left to make his heart rise and fall with great throbs of joy as he thought of Katy free, even though that freedom were bought at the expense of dire disgrace to others and of misery to her.  But only for a moment did he feel thus, only till the bonnet was removed and the gaslight fell upon the pallid face with the dark rings beneath the eyes, and the faint, quivering motion around the lips, which told that she was not wholly unconscious.

“My poor little wounded bird,” he said, as pityingly as if he had been her father, while, much as a father might kiss his suffering child, he kissed the forehead and the eyelids where the tears began to gather.

Katy was not insensible, and the name by which he called her, with the kisses that he gave, thawed the ice around her heart and brought a flood of tears which Morris wiped away, removing her heavy fur and lifting her gently up, while he took away the cloak and left her unencumbered.  With a sigh she sank back into the chair, and, leaning her head upon its cushioned arm, moaned like a weary child.

“It is so pleasant to be here, and it rests me so.  I wish I might never go away.  May I stay here, Morris, as your housekeeper, instead of Mrs. Hull?—­that is, if I am not his wife.  The world might despise me, but you would know I was not to blame.  I should go nowhere but to the farmhouse, to church, and baby’s grave.  Poor baby!  I am glad God gave her to me, even if I am not Wilford’s wife; and I am glad now that she died.”

She was talking to herself rather than to Morris, who, smoothing back her hair and chafing her cold hands, said: 

“My poor child, you have passed through some agitating scene.  Are you able now to tell me all about it, and what you mean by another wife?”

He saw she was greatly exhausted, and he brought her a glass of wine, hoping she would rally.  She had no supper, she said, except a cracker bought in Springfield, but the moment he turned to the bellrope she begged him not to ring.  She was not hungry—­she could not eat.  She should never eat again.