Seven o'clock!
At last the barrier of pride and reserve began to crumble. Penelope turned to her old friend, trying at first to speak lightly, but her troubled eyes told the story of tension within. Then came the confession—in broken words. There were two things on her conscience—one that she had done, but it wasn't exactly her fault, one that she did not do, but she meant to do it. She supposed that was a sin just the same.
Mrs. Walters smiled encouragingly.
“It can't be so serious a sin, can it? Tell me everything, Pen.”
With flaming cheeks the young widow told how she had meant to adopt a child—in France—that would really have been—her own child. She did not do this because she met Captain Herrick, but—she would have done it. The other thing was what happened on the Fall River steamboat—with Julian. On that tragic summer night, she had finally yielded to him and—she had wanted to yield!
To which Seraphine made the obvious reply: “Still, my dear, he was your husband.”
“But I had sworn that never—never—it was so—ignoble! I despised him. Then I despised myself.”
The medium listened thoughtfully.
“You trust me, don't you, Pen? You know I want to do what is best for you?” She passed her arm affectionately around her distressed friend.
“Oh, yes. You have proved it, dearest. I'll never be able to repay your love.”