"And so you punish yourself?"
"It was terrible for me—even as a child. I said that I could never forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came something else."
"You saw him, there amie?"
"I saw him—so changed, so quiet, so much older—all grey at the temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the thing —to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn—" She paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre.
"It is safe; I am silent," he said.
"That I might learn to bear—him," she continued.
"Is he still—" Pierre paused.
She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know." She waited for a minute, then said again, "I don't know. When he was free, he came to me, but I—I could not. He thought, too, that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't—be his wife. He didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn't ready—no—no—no—how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol, but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol—what was that to me! There was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been wicked —not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think—the difference— if he had been a thief!"