Miss Blanchard felt she must remain with Mr. and Mrs. Alden till the two younger children were quite recovered, and the house had been disinfected. Then, after due precautions, she returned to her brother's house, the children, including Cecilia, being sent away, for a day or two, to one of Mrs. Blanchard's relatives. Nora had seized a favorable opportunity to tell Mr. Alden, in confidence, the painful story that was burdening her mind. He was, of course, deeply interested, the more so that he knew, as Nora did not, the story of the child's rejected appeal.

He was, though surprised, not so much shocked as Nora had been; for he had formed, from his own observation, a tolerably correct appreciation of Mr. Chillingworth's limitations. He thought, most decidedly, that the man chiefly concerned should know the circumstances, as soon as possible, but he felt that the task of telling him was one which he himself was not the best person to undertake.

"Then who could?" Nora anxiously inquired.

"I think, my dear girl," he said, "that no one can do it so well as yourself!"

"Oh! but I couldn't!" she exclaimed.

"I think you could. I am sure you could if you made up your mind to do it. And, if it is right, you will make up your mind."

"But how? I could never begin!"

"Wait for your opportunity," he said. "You will surely get it, and I believe you will find the way, too, when the opportunity comes. There's no fear of your doing it cruelly."

Nora did not feel so sure. She feared that the very effort would make the disclosure come out harshly, whatever she might desire. But she accepted Mr. Alden's counsel, without further opposition.

One of her first cares was a visit to the hospital, where she found that "Mrs. Travers" had been in a very quiet and subdued mood, ever since the painful scene of her return. Miss Spencer expressed relief and approval when Nora told her of her determination.

"Only," she said, "unless he means to acknowledge her, it will be best that she should never know that he knows."

Nora assented. But how, she thought, would it ever be possible for him, of all men, to "acknowledge" a wife in such circumstances? She was very sad and thoughtful as she walked home.

That evening, it so happened that Mr. Chillingworth called at his usual hour—Mrs. Blanchard being out at a large afternoon reception, to which Nora naturally did not care to accompany her. Possibly Mr. Chillingworth had guessed as much, and hoped to find her alone. It was the first time he had been able to see her since the evening of the oratorio, and he was more effusive in his greeting, more genuinely sympathetic, than she had ever seen him. She found it almost impossible to command her thoughts, so as to keep up conversation. She could not keep them from darting off to the task that lay before her, and, all the time she was trying to reply to him, she was wondering when the "opportunity" would come, and whether she could be equal to it.

They talked of many indifferent things, of the financial success of the oratorio, of the beauty of the spring evenings, of the hyacinths and violets that were filling the room with fragrance, delighting Mr. Chillingworth's sensitive organization. He himself was in an unusually genial and happy mood, utterly unconscious, of course, of the abyss that was yawning at his feet. He had of late been indulging much in a day-dream that was ever taking more tangible shape. He was growing very tired of his solitary life, and he had been dreaming of the sweet companionship of a graceful and cultivated woman, which should refresh and rejuvenate his heart and life. The dream was uppermost in his heart, and very near his lips.

By and by, in spite of Nora's best efforts, the conversation flagged perceptibly. Mr. Chillingworth himself seemed indisposed to talk much. After a short pause he began, however, in a tone that was low, and more tenderly modulated than usual.

"It is curious how this spring weather seems to wake up all sorts of associations and longings in us; just as it wakes the stirring life in the flowers! Years ago, a blight—the result of a great trouble—seemed to come over my life. But it has gradually worn off, and of late I have been cherishing a hope that my life might yet blossom anew."

Nora's heart beat fast with affright. Her instinct warned her of what was coming. It must not come! That would be too horrible! She had no time to delay, so she rushed into the subject without daring to pause to think.

"Do you know," she said, surprising him by what seemed the utter irrelevancy of her remark,—"we have always been much interested in the history of little Cecilia's mother. And now it turns out that she is the wife of a man who still supposes her to have been lost at sea!"

The pallor of her face, the suppressed agitation of her manner in forcing in this interruption, must of themselves have explained much more than her words. Well—she had dealt the blow, she hardly knew how; but she would not look to see its effect. She was conscious of a deadly stillness in the room. The faint ticking of the marble clock on the mantel, the occasional fall of a cinder from the fire in the grate, the distant note of a robin, were the only sounds, unless the beating of her heart were audible, as she fancied it must be. The only other sensation she was conscious of was the floating fragrance of the hyacinths, which she ever afterwards associated with this scene.

He spoke at last—but it was only to ask, in a scarcely audible tone:

"What was her name?"

"Her maiden name was—Celia Travers," she replied, in a tone as low as his own.

It seemed a long time—it could not have been many minutes—before Mr. Chillingworth rose, and in a hoarse, low tone that he vainly tried to steady, said 'he must go now, as he had many things to think of.' She gave him her hand timidly, without raising her eyes to his face. He held it for a moment, with a pressure that hurt it,—raised it for a moment to his lips—and was gone. She knew it was a silent farewell.