“Do you think Miss Farrel knew?”
Sylvia shook her head again.
“Do you think that lawyer out West, who takes care of her money, knows?”
“No.” Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice. “This must be what she is always afraid of remembering,” she said.
“Pray God she never does remember,” Henry said. “Poor little thing! Here she is carrying a load on her back, and if she did but once turn her head far enough to get a glimpse of it she would die of it. It's lucky we can't see the other side of the moon, and I guess it's lucky we haven't got eyes in the backs of our heads.”
“You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to him,” said Sylvia.
Henry made an impatient motion. “Look here, Sylvia,” he said. “I love that young man like my own son, and your feeling about it is rank idiocy.”
“And I love her like my own daughter!” cried Sylvia, passionately. “And I don't want to feel that she's marrying and keeping anything back.”
“Now, look here, Sylvia, here are you and I. We've got this secret betwixt us, and we've got to carry it betwixt us, and never let any living mortal see it as long as we both live; and the one that outlives the other has got to bear it alone, like a sacred trust.”
Sylvia nodded. Henry put out the kitchen lamp, and the two left the room, moving side by side, and it was to each of them as if they were in reality carrying with their united strength the heavy, dead weight of the secret.