That evening, while he lay with her head on his breast, as she sat by the bed, he watched the boys a long time.
"Martha," he said, at last, "you said that they should never know. Did you keep your word?"
"I kept it, Stephen."
He was quiet a long while after that, and then he said,—
"Some day I will tell them. It's all clearer to me now. If ever I find the good God, I'll teach Him to my boys out of my own life. They'll not love me less."
He did not talk much that day; even to her he could not say that which was in his heart; but it seemed to him there was One who heard and understood,—looking out, after all was quiet that night, into the far depth of the silent sky, and going over his whole wretched life down to that bitterest word of all, as if he had found a hearer more patient, more tender than either wife or child.
"Is there any use to try?" he cried. "I was a thief."
Then, in the silence, came to him the memory of the old question,—
"Hath no man condemned thee?"
He put his hands over his face:—