"I was mad with anguish. I went back to my lodging; the landlady asked me if I had left the baby in Brighton, and I answered 'Yes.' I do not know how the days went on—I could not tell you; I was never myself, nor do I remember much until some weeks afterward I went home to my grandmother, who died soon after I reached her. I need not tell you that afterwards I met Lance, and learned to love him with all my heart.
"Do not tell him; promise me, I beseech you, for mercy's sake, do not tell him!"
"What you have told me," I said, "certainly gives a different aspect to the whole affair. I will make no promise—I will think it over. I must have time to decide what is best."
"You will spare me," she went on. "You see I did no one any harm, wrong or injury. If I hurt another, then you might deprive me of my husband and my home; as it is, Lance loves me and I love him. You will not tell him?"
"I will think about it," I replied.
"But I cannot live in this suspense," she cried. "If you will tell him, tell him this day, this hour."
"He might forgive you," I said.
"No, he would not be angry, he would not reproach me, but he would never look upon my face again."
"Would it not be better for you to tell him yourself?" I suggested.
"Oh, no!" she cried, with a shudder. "No, I shall never tell him."