at last to confess the whole to my son and the clergyman. I must do it. I shall die easier."
"But, father," Hannah cried, in alarm, "reflect a moment. What possible good can it do to tell Mr. Sanford, or even Burton? It would only give him unnecessary pain. You have kept it so long, why not let the grave bury your secret?"
"Because I cannot," the old man answered, "I must tell Burton. I have always intended to do it at the last, so that he might know what you have borne. Perhaps he may be kinder, gentler with you. Burton stands well with men; high in the world, but he is not like you; he would never have done what you have, and I want him to know that there is a sacrifice which ennobles one more than all the honors of the world, and I want Mr. Sanford to know why I could not go forward and ratify my baptismal vows, as he has so often urged me to do, thinking me obstinate in my refusal; and I wish to hear him say that he believes I am forgiven; that Christ will receive me, even me, a—Oh, Hannah, I can not say that word. I cannot give myself that name. I never have, you know. It was so sudden, so without forethought, and, could I live my life over again, I think I should tell at once, and not bury the secret as I did. But hurry, Hannah. Send Sam. I have but a few hours to live. Tell them to come quickly, Burton and the minister, not Grey."
So Hannah wrote the note to her brother, and gave it to Sam, who, in a most unwilling frame of mind, harnessed the horse, and started in the storm for Grey's Park.
Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming of the guests, Hannah put her father's room a little more to rights, lighted another candle, put more wood in the stove, and then sat down to wait the result, with a heart which it seemed to her had ceased to beat, so pulseless and dead it lay in her bosom. She had no fear of anything personally adverse to herself or her father arising from the telling of the secret kept so many years. It would be safe with Mr. Sanford, while her proud brother would die a thousand deaths sooner than reveal it; but, oh, how cruelly he would be hurt, and how he would shrink from the story, and blame her that she allowed it to be told, especially to the clergyman—and she might perhaps prevent that yet. So she made another effort, but her father was determined.
"I must, I must; I shall die easier, and he will never tell. We have known him so long. Twenty-five years he has been here, and he took to us from the first. Do you remember how often he used to come and read to you on the bench under the apple tree?"
"Yes, father," Hannah answered, with a gasp, and he went on:
"Seeing you two together so much, I used to think he had a liking for you, and you for him. Did you, Hannah? Were you and the minister ever engaged?"
"No, father, never," Hannah replied, as she pressed her hands tightly together, while two great burning tears rolled down her cheeks.
"And yet you were a comely enough lass then," her father rejoined, as if bent on tormenting her. "You had lost your bright color to be sure, but there was something very winsome in your face and eyes, and manner; and he might better have married you than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, fussy Martha Craig, who, like the Martha of old, is troubled about many things, and leads the minister a stirred up kind of life."
"Mrs. Sanford is a model housekeeper, and takes good care of her husband," Hannah said, softly; and then, as she heard the sound of voices outside, she arose quickly, and went to meet her brother, and the man who, her father had said, would better have married her than the "sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Martha."
CHAPTER X.
THE INTERVIEW.
The rector was full of interest and concern as he stepped into the room, and when Hannah apologized for sending for him on such a night, he answered promptly:
"Not at all, not at all. If I can be of any comfort to you or your father, I should be very sorry not to come. How is he?"
Hannah did not answer him, so intent was she upon studying her brother's face, which was anything but sympathetic, as he shook the snow from his overcoat and warmed his hands by the stove. The Hon. Burton Jerrold liked his comfort and ease, and as he was far from easy or comfortable, he made his sister feel it by his manner, if not by his words.
"Is father so much worse that you must send for us in this storm?" he asked, and Hannah replied:
"Yes, he is very bad. He says he is going to die, and I believe it. He will not last the night out, and of course I must send for you, and he insisted that Mr. Sanford should come too."
"Yes, certainly; I am glad he did," the clergyman rejoined, thrusting his hands into his coat-pocket. "He wishes the communion, I dare say," and he placed reverently upon the table the little silver service.
Hannah's face flushed as she replied;
"He did not mention that, I do not suppose he thinks he can receive it. What he wishes is to see you, to talk to you, to—to—"
She hesitated, her brother's countenance was so forbidding, then added, quickly:
"'He wishes to tell you something which he has kept for years," and her voice sank to a whisper as she glanced again at her brother.
It was coming, then, the thing he had suspected so long, and which he never had wished to learn, and Burton Jerrold breathed hard as he said:
"But surely, Hannah, if there are family secrets to be told, I am the one to hear them, and not a stranger. Mr. Sanford can have no interest in our affairs."
"I could not help it, brother," Hannah said, mildly. "I tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen, and Mr. Sanford is not like a stranger to us."
She turned her dark eyes full of tears upon the clergyman, who gave her back an answering glance which her brother did not observe, and would not have comprehended if he had.
"Yes, Hannah," Mr. Sanford said, "you can trust me; be the secret one of life or death, it is safe with me as with you." And he gave her his hand by way of affirmation.
And Hannah took the offered hand and held fast to it as a drowning man holds to a straw, while the tears ran like rain down her pale face.
"Hannah! Burton! Are you there, and the minister? There is no time to lose," came feebly from the sick-room, and Hannah said:
"He is calling us; go to him, please. I will join you in a minute."
Then she hurried to the summer kitchen, where she found Sam, who thought his work done, and was removing his boots preparatory to going to bed.
"Wait, Sam," she said. "I am sorry, for I know you are tired and sleepy, but you must sit up a while longer, and take Mr. Sanford home. I will bring you an easy-chair in which you can sleep till I want you."
Thus speaking, she brought a large Boston rocker and a pillow for the tired boy, who, she knew, would soon be fast asleep, with no suspicion of what was about to transpire in the sick-room to which she next repaired, closing the door behind her. Her father had both Burton's hands in his, and was crying like a little child.
"Oh, my son, my son," he said, "if I could
