"Don't you know, Jessie?"
Silence long—"Yes, I know," she said, "and I never loved you as I love you now."
Then the flood-gates were rolled back and the tide burst forth. Oh, the luxury of it; the sweetness of it—to feel, nay, to know, that there was one life that clung to him, trusted him, loved him, through all the waste and shame! And the blessed relief it gave; to tell it all, keeping nothing back, blaming no other—not even Oliver—breathing out the story of the struggle and the overthrow and the humiliation and the anguish. And in that hour Hope, long absent and aloof, came back and nestled in his heart again. On he went, the story long and intimate and awful, coming closer and closer by many and circuitous routes to the very soul of things, hovering about the Name he almost dreaded now to speak, yet yearned with a great longing to pronounce; his soul was crying out for all that was behind his mother's name, the comfort and sympathy and power which he felt, dimly but unconquerably, could not be stifled in a distant grave.
"Do you think she knows?" he asked at last, in a tone so low that even Jessie could scarcely hear.
They could catch the sound of the wind upon the grass as they waited, both waited. "Yes," as she trembled closer, "yes, thank God."
He started so suddenly as to frighten her. The conflict-riven face peered into hers through the dark.
"What?" he asked sternly. "What did you say?"
"I think she knows," the calm voice answered. "I'm sure God knows—and it makes it easier."
He held her out at arm's length, still staring at her through the gloom. "What?—I thought sorrows were all past and over—for her," the words coming as a bitter questioning.
Jessie's face, serene with such composure as only sorrow gives, was held close to his own. "We cannot tell," she whispered low; "that is between her and God—they both know."