"I lived it down for a good many years. Don's twenty-two now."
"But how could you keep that secret—what made you? Why didn't you go into court and force me to do my duty to my own flesh and blood—and to you?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I told you, I don't know. Maybe I was proud. Maybe I thought I'd wait till you shamed your own self into coming. I'm glad you've come now, at last. I don't know—maybe I thought some day you would."
"I'm not Judge Henderson!" he broke out bitterly. "I'm Arthur Dimmesdale! I ought to be in the pillory, on the gallows, before this town. I'm a thief and a coward, and I deserve no pity, neither of man nor of God himself. You've carried all the blame, when I was the one to blame. And I can't see why you didn't tell, Aurie—what made you keep it all a secret?"
"I don't know," said she simply again. "I don't know. It seemed—it seemed somehow to me—sacred—what was between us! It was—Don! I have never told anyone. I was waiting, hoping you'd come—for your own sake. Why should I rob you of your chance?"
"Thank God that you did keep the secret!" he broke out at length. "It's all the chance I have left to be a man. At least I'll confess the truth."
"Why, Will, what do you mean? I'll never tell. I told you I wouldn't—I swore I wouldn't.
"I'll be going away before long, Will," she added. "I can't stay here now. I suppose Don and I will go away somewhere. I'm glad he's found a good girl. Ah!—Anne, she's splendid.... I'm not going to make any objections to his marrying her. And, you see, I'll know that you came here. And some time he will know—who was his father. He doesn't, yet. In justice, some time he will. God will attend to that, not any of us."
"All the world shall know it, Aurora!" said the man at her side. "I saw them a little while ago, walking together. He was listening to the drums. He was looking at the Flag—and so was she. They are up at my house now. They're happy. God bless them."
"But they don't know—you've not told?"