"Yes, before Heaven, it is the truth, and the horror of it has haunted me day and night; the thought of it has driven me nearly mad, but I dared not breathe it to any living human being."
"You have told no one else what you have just told me?"
"No, I dared not."
He asked a few more questions which she answered, and from her manner he was convinced that she spoke the truth. Then he sat for a moment silent, his head bowed, his eyes covered, lost in thought, while strangely commingled emotions surged within his breast.
At last she broke the silence. "It will help you—what I have told you—will it not?"
"It is of inestimable value to me," he answered, but instead of exultation, there was a strange sadness in his voice.
"You will let me help you, and you will be a son to me, will you not?"
He looked at her with an expression of mingled pity and bitterness, and then, without replying, lifted her gently but firmly and reseated her, while he himself remained standing at a little distance. She watched him anxiously.
"Harold," at last she ventured, "think what I have suffered, and do not refuse my one prayer."
"I can see that you have suffered," he answered, gently; "and, as I have told you, I will help you pecuniarily and will befriend you, only do not ask me that which I cannot give."