broke out over his whole form, for something in her expression, and especially in the aspect of Mildred’s face, seemed to indicate that they knew all, and his own guilty fears and conscience made the surmise true for the moment; but the tender manner in which his wife wiped his brow and kissed him were reassuring, and with his rallying powers grew the hope that his weakness might yet be unknown and successfully concealed until, by his physician’s aid, he had thrown off the curse.  Fearing above and beyond all things else that his wife would learn his degradation, he slowly and fitfully tried to mature plans of deception; but his enfeebled mind rallied so slowly that he felt for a time that silence and observation were his best allies.  He would cautiously and suspiciously feel his way, and having learned all that had transpired since he remembered being on the steamer, he could then decide more clearly how to shape his course.  He therefore affected to regard his condition as the result of a severe illness, and murmured that “quiet and home life would soon bring him round.”

Mildred kissed him also, and answered, “We cannot think otherwise, papa, for our love, our lives, and all are bound up in you.”

The morning dragged heavily away, for all except the little ones were under the impression that dark and woful days were before them.  Mr. Benton had not disguised the truth—­that the problem with which they had to deal was one of great difficulty and much doubt.  This prospect was depressing, but that which weighed like lead upon their hearts was the thought that one who had ever been their ideal of honor and truth had deceived them for months, and had steadily yielded to a habit which he knew must destroy his family’s honor and leave them friendless, penniless, and disgraced.  The weeks of pain that Mildred had endured were not the result of a hard necessity, but of a vicious indulgence of a depraved appetite.  Not disease but sin had so darkened their lives and brought them to a pass where even daily bread and shelter for the future were doubtful questions.

A thousand times Mildred asked herself, “How can I go out and face the world with my name blackened by this great cloud of shame?” She felt as if she never wished to step into the open light of day again, and the thought of Vinton Arnold made her shudder.  “There is now a great gulf between us,” she moaned.  “The truth that my father is an opium slave can never be hidden, and even were Vinton inclined to be faithful, his family would regard me as a leper, and he will yield to their abhorrence.”

The wound in both her own and her mother’s heart was deep indeed.  Their confidence was shattered, their faith in human goodness and honor destroyed.  While they still hoped much, they nevertheless harbored a desperate fear, and, at best, the old serene trust could never return.  Even if Mr. Jocelyn could rally and reform, there would ever remain the knowledge that he had once been weak and false, and might be again.  He would be one who must be watched, shielded, and sustained, and not one upon whom they could lean in quiet faith.  The quaking earth which shatters into ruin the material home brings but a slight disaster compared with the vice that destroys a lifelong trust in a husband and father.