“How can I kiss you, dear, unless you take away your hands?” he said, gently removing them and pressing his lips to hers.
“Oh, Abel! if I could leave my bed—I should be at your feet! It is on my knees that I should receive your forgiveness,” she moaned.
“My dearest,” he whispered, kissing her again—“my dearest, I do not offer you forgiveness, for you have done me no wrong.”
“Oh, yes! oh, yes! I had a shameful secret, and I kept it from you, and married you! My love——No, no! my selfish feeling was not worthy of the name of love, yet what else can I call it? Whatever it was, it blinded me to honor and duty and drew me on to marry you, with that shameful secret in my heart,” she moaned.
“Dear wife, you are very morbid. Your secret was not a shameful one, and it was never kept from me,” he answered, caressingly.
“What, Abel! What are you telling me?” she inquired, starting up in bed.
“Lie down again. Calm yourself and keep very quiet, Elfrida. I have much to tell you, and I will tell you all. Confession for confession, my dear.”
“The idea that you should have anything to confess! It is impossible, Abel!” she said, as she sank back on her pillow and lay quietly as he had told her to do.
“Yes, Elfrida! Confession for confession! for I knew your secret when we married, but I never let you suspect that I knew it.”
“How?” she breathed, in wonder.