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"But, my dear, dear child," she said, "this is worse and worse. Your
father and your husband may have done wrong, but you have done wrong
too. Don't you see you have?"
I did not tell her that I had thought of all that before, and did not
believe any longer that God would punish me for breaking a bond I had
been forced to make. But when she was about to rise, saying that after
all it would be a good thing to send me home before I had time to join
my life to his--whoever he was--who had led me to forget my duty as a
wife, I held her trembling hands and whispered:
"Wait, Mildred. There is something I have not told you even yet."
"What is it?" she asked, but already I could see that she knew what I
was going to say.
"Mildred," I said, "if I ran away from my husband it was not merely
because I loved somebody else, but because. . . ."
I could not say it. Do what I would I could not. But holy women like
Mildred, who spend their lives among the lost ones, have a way of
reading a woman's heart when it is in trouble, and Mildred read mine.


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