“Lucy!” She saw him wrenched with agony, and her own face took the whiteness of his—­she bending forward to him, all her faculties strung to hearing.

He held her two hands that she might look on him and not spare the horrible wound he was going to lay open to her eyes.

“Lucy.  Do you know why I came to you to-night?”

She moved her lips repeating his words.

“Lucy.  Have you guessed why I did not come before?”

Her head shook widened eyes.

“Lucy.  I did not come because I was not worthy of my wife!  Do you understand?”

“Darling,” she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching under him, “what have I done to make you angry with me?”

“O beloved!” cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes.  “O beloved!” was all he could say, kissing her hands passionately.

She waited, reassured, but in terror.

“Lucy.  I stayed away from you—­I could not come to you, because...  I dared not come to you, my wife, my beloved!  I could not come because I was a coward:  because—­hear me—­this was the reason:  I have broken my marriage oath.”

Again her lips moved.  She caught at a dim fleshless meaning in them.  “But you love me?  Richard!  My husband! you love me?”

“Yes.  I have never loved, I never shall love, woman but you.”

“Darling!  Kiss me.”

“Have you understood what I have told you?”

“Kiss me,” she said.

He did not join lips.  “I have come to you to-night to ask your forgiveness.”

Her answer was:  “Kiss me.”

“Can you forgive a man so base?”

“But you love me, Richard?”

“Yes:  that I can say before God.  I love you, and I have betrayed you, and am unworthy of you—­not worthy to touch your hand, to kneel at your feet, to breathe the same air with you.”

Her eyes shone brilliantly.  “You love me! you love me, darling!” And as one who has sailed through dark fears into daylight, she said:  “My husband! my darling! you will never leave me?  We never shall be parted again?”

He drew his breath painfully.  To smooth her face growing rigid with fresh fears at his silence, he met her mouth.  That kiss in which she spoke what her soul had to say, calmed her, and she smiled happily from it, and in her manner reminded him of his first vision of her on the summer morning in the field of the meadow-sweet.  He held her to him, and thought then of a holier picture:  of Mother and Child:  of the sweet wonders of life she had made real to him.

Had he not absolved his conscience?  At least the pangs to come made him think so.  He now followed her leading hand.  Lucy whispered:  “You mustn’t disturb him—­mustn’t touch him, dear!” and with dainty fingers drew off the covering to the little shoulder.  One arm of the child was out along the pillow; the small hand open.  His baby-mouth was pouted full; the