When we entered the parlor, Lord Montford rose, and when he addressed us, his voice trembled.
"May I ask," he began, "if a lady who some time since obtained shelter at the hospital, is still here? I have traced her here; can I be allowed to see her?"
"Lord Montford," said Mother Frances, "Eva's history is well known to me; and I have no hesitation in saying that, while this roof shelters her, she shall be safe from your further deceptions."
"Nay, you mistake, Rev. Mother, I am come to offer Eva the only reparation in my power. As you know my errors, concealment is useless. My first wife is dead, and I am come to make her my own again."
It took a long time to prepare Eva for this news; I dreaded it. She was so near the verge of the grave, that I feared the least agitation would be fatal. She bore it calmly; and when I had told her, Lord Montford entered the room, and I left them together.
Would, dear reader, that I could tell you, as the old story-books do, that Eva lived long and happily; but alas! no; she died three weeks after this, reconciled to God and to the church.
Eva Lady Montford lies in her quiet grave; violets are growing where her bright head was laid low. The winds chant drearily among the trees that shelter her tomb; and if you visit it when the morning sun gilds the flowers, or the moon silvers the leaves, you will always meet there one who, if he sinned deeply, has repented more deeply still.
From the wind that sighs over Eva's grave, comes there, my dear young reader, no warning to you? Is there no secret hoarded in that heart of yours, that a mother's eye has never penetrated; and if so, will it lead to your happiness in this world or the next? Ah! no; concealment or deception in the end works misery, let the cause be what it may. A pure and open heart before God, and a just and blameless one before the world, is my prayer for you.