“Dear mother, it seems to me you are not happy, though you would have us believe it is so?”
“Elsie, no one is perfectly happy; that is a saying as old as the plucking of the forbidden fruit that first brought suffering into the world, and yet we never believe it. We are ever striving for that perfect happiness which is impossible.”
“I do not believe it to be impossible, dear mother. I am a firm believer in perfect earthly happiness; I am so near it myself. Why, even now, I should be perfectly happy but for the shadow on your brow, mother.”
“‘But,’ there is ever a ‘but.’ It is the order of life, and I am content with it. Be at ease, dear; I, too, should be perfectly happy, but——”
“What, dearest mother?”
“I am a living falsehood, Elsie.”
“Mother!”
“Child, I did not mean to speak so strongly. But I have a secret to keep that pains me always—a sinful secret, inasmuch as I am conscious that the keeping of it may cause sin in others.”
“Sin, mother?”
“Yes, Elsie; your father is in the prime of life; he believes himself a widower. What if he were to marry again?”