San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1890-11-11

hardest OF II all; L can never prove what
| sayl) you would not believe it long.
On, have thought over it all thou
sand timesl" she cried with sudden
passionate clasping of her hands,-"how
you would begin at first by thinking
you believed me; and then how, bit by
bit, you would come flor you could not
help it!) to doubt and suspect and watch
me, till could not bear it'll it would
end, think, by killing me at last-Mr.
Dunstan, let me go away!'' she said all
at once, abruptly and hurriedly, unclasp-
ing her hands and standing erect, and
looking straight into his face,-as
though, poor soul, she had been stand
ing before her accuser, and had sudden
ly regained momentary touch of the
bitter and almost defiant courage which
she had been goaded into when she had
really had to meet her accusers face to
face. Let me 60 now! You know
that what | have told you-even so
much of it's worse than you thought.
And will tell you one thing more too,
if you like. do not call myself by my
husbands name. do not dare use it,
lest people should recognize me when
they hear it, and know me to be his
wife. Take in all that that MEANS
anu now leU,lne 90.
"Iush Sit down here, and be still
for little while. Sit still, and do not
speak," was the only answer that he
He drew chair to where she was
standing, and made her take it. She
would have refused it if she could, but
he would not let her; her momentary
courage, too, was dying out of her al
rn06U onH hpr RnnpS haninnirnr RI
tremble. She sat down, and then he
went away from her, and busted him
self, or feigned to be busy, for five min
utes in some other part of the room, be-
fore he came back to his old position,
and spoke to her again.
She had been sitting looking into the
fire, with her hands clasped on her
knees saying to herself
-"He will never be the same to me
again! He will never think the same
of me any more!" And then she began
to cry-"Why did tell so much to him?
need | have told so much? He be-
lieved in me before, and now he cannot
help suspecting me, and if he suspects
me what shall / do?" She was think
ing this when he came back and spoke
to her.
He came back to his former place,
and addressed her at once.
"You want me to let you 60 away"
he said. Before agree to do that let
me ask you one more question. You
will not tell me your secret, but tell me
this at least; no matter what you can
prove or not prove,-tell me simply,
have you ever done anything that ought
to make you ashamed to look into an
honest mans or woman's face?"
"Never!" she cried instantly, with her
eyes meeting his full, and the color
flushing crimson to her cheek. She sat
erect upon her chair, looking eagerly
and unhesitatingly into his face.
'Never-never!" she repeated feryent-
ly.
"Then STAY" he said. II will not let
you go. Stay here: do not talk about
going" he repeated moment after
ward, going to her side, and quietly
laying his hand, as if she had been a
child, upon her shoulder. Il trusted
you from the first-I trust you now-I
would trust you if you would tell your
story to me-" He paused for second
or two, but she made no answer. "Well,
let it be as you like at present" he went
on then. "You will trust me some day
yet perhaps"
"Some day." she repeated. and burst
suddenly into tears. "Oh, | trust you
now-I trust you nowl' she said.
But yet she would not tell her secret
to him, nor trust him in the way he
asked.
Esther looks ILL.," some of the others
had begun to say before this, and in the
course of the next week they said it
oftener and with more cause. for indeed
she was sick at heart, and tone with
anxiety and conflicting feelings. What
should she do?-what could she do? she
was thinking all day long. She knew
that every hour she spent under Guy
Dunstan's roof was making him dearer
to her; in spite of herself, for she would
have disbelieved it if she could, she
knew that she was becoming dearer to
him: it seemed to her that the only right
thing for her to do-the one thing that
she ought to do, to keep him from
thinking of an impossible future-was
to tell her secret to him, and then to go
away out of his sight forever; and yet
she was such coward that she thought
it would be easier to die than to tell
him her secret, and see him change to
her.
Sometimes the wild thought crossed
her mind of going away without telling
him anything; but though she thought
of this she knew that she could not do it,
that she had no right to do it now. The
one right thing for her to do was to tell
the truth to him,-and yet how could she
bear to tell him the truth?
She had been so happy for little
while, and now that brief happiness had
all become convulsed, and half her days
were spent between wearing anxiety
and self-reproach upon the one hand,
and restless broken feverish Joy upon
the other. She could not help it that,
i'm spite of all her distress and remorSe,