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��Ethel Freeman.
��' most wretched,' she called it. And then she cried, and, O mamma ! I saw papa kiss her, and she put her arras round his neck and kissed him; and I thought I should die ! for I knew it was wrong and wicked, and I knew 't would 'most kill you ! " and the lit- tle girl began sobbing again. "■ By and by she went away and papa went with her. They had forgotten that I was sitting in the library, and I crept up stairs all cold, alone, to bed. I would n't call nurse, fori did n't want anybody to know what was the mat- ter, nor how bad I felt. And O mother I I thought you would never come home. I did not dare to say a word to papa, and if I could not have told you pretty soon I think I should have died."
Ethel sat very still as she listened to her little girl's story, and her first thought was for her. The child had received a terrible shock, not alone in the revealed character in which she now saw her father, but the veil had been rudely torn from her idol, her ideal of perfected womanhood. The beautiful faith of childhood had de- parted from her, and it would never come again. She was very young to suffer such a loss, but there was no help for it. Mother and daughter would bear the sorrow together now — strange l)urden for a nine-years-old daughter !— and Ethel soothed her as best she could, telling her how sorry slie was for what she had suffered, and for what she had seen and heard ; that she was much too young to know such sad things, but that she could be a great comfort to her in hel[)ing iier to bear the trouI)le ; that she should not feel so utterly alone, and that there was no one else she could
��tell ; that they must love each other more than ever, and maybe after a time it would not seem so dreadful to them both. Then she heard Florry's prayers, and put her to bed and left her, and went down stairs to the par- lor, where her husband was waiting for her. On the stairs, she recalled her mother's question long ago, — " If I am right, if 3'ou should be wretched and miserable, what should you do?" and her answer, " If it should be for worse all my life long, I would never break my promise." " But I never expected this, never this ! " she said, fiercely.
Her husband arose when she came in, and came forward, but he noticed her stern face and haughty manner, and dropped his arms extended to embrace her. She stood before him, and very quietly and coldly spoke of their life together from the very first until now ; of her mother's opposition and iier own high hopes and great love ; of his feeling of her inferiority ; of her homesickness and discontent ; of her visit in New York, and the re- solve she had made to come back, to a ])etter way of living ; then of Flor- ry's revelation. She paused a mo- ment, but George seemed stricken dumb, and she went on :
"For the children's sake, and be- cause I think it is right, no one but myself and Florry shall know your meanness. I shall write a note to Mrs. Hamilton. She will never dark- en my doors again. With all her gifts and accomplishments I do not envy her, nor do I envy you. You have thought yourself and her my superiors ; but there is no guilt on my conscience, and you and she have ruined my life."
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