"What did she say when she received my letters?"
"She has received none of them. When mother and I got home after her marriage, we found one awaiting us here. We opened it and we read it, and we burned it--though it went to our hearts to do so."
"What right had you to open a letter to my wife? what right to intercept it?"
"The right of her nearest to guard poor Lina's peace. What good would it have done you if we had given it to her? No doubt she would have left her husband; but that would not have given her back to _you_. You know her as well as I do. You know that she would not have looked you in the face after having given herself to another. She would have pined away for shame; or, more likely, she would have gone mad."
"Yes, lad," put in the mother, "you must take your trouble on your own back, unless you would destroy the woman you bound yourself to defend. You must go away and never let her know you are alive. I make no question but she would leave her present husband without a word; but think of yourself! Could _you_ take her to your bosom out of another man's arms? Could she ever be the same to you as she was before?"
"And think of her! How could she live beneath your looks of always remembering reproach?"
"At least I can promise never to say a word. I would not reproach her."
"Not in words, I well believe, lad. But the reproach unspoken of a wounded love will out in many a tone and look, without our knowing. And then, there is the world. How could my girl hold up her head among honest women? Their pity would be harder even than their scorn to bear. Lina would die of shame. Oh, lad! be generous, as I know you are able to be. I know you for a brave true man; and when the first smart is past, you will have pity for the girl you loved, and who loved you well. You will spare her weakness, and let your own brave strong heart contain its grief in silence. You do not know her name or where she dwells, and you will not attempt to seek her."
The young man smothered a mighty sob, which nearly rent his breast asunder, and drew his hand roughly across his eyes to clear their gathering dimness. He turned and went, without a word of leave-taking. The elasticity was gone out of his step. His shoulders were bowed as though they bore a burden. His face was drawn, and aged, and faded. His very soul seemed crushed. Without another word he stole away out into the night, where no eye could pry into his sorrow.