"Why do you talk of that person so much?" Leighton implored. "You seem to
be charging me with his cruelty. I am not like him."
The tears filled her eyes as she started toward him, saying, "No, you are
_not_ like him. Even if you should become like him, I couldn't reproach
you. I should merely die."
"But you know him so well?" he added, inquiringly. "You seem to fear him.
Has he any power over you?"
For a moment she was so sombre that he half feared lest her mind was
unstrung on this one subject.
"No," she at last said. "His power is gone--nearly gone. Oh, if I could
only forget!"
After another pause, during which she seemed to be nerving herself to a
confession, she threw herself into her husband's arms and whispered, "He
is my--uncle."
He was puzzled by the contrast between the violence of her emotion and the
unimportance of this avowal; but as he at least saw that the subject was
painful to her, and as he was all confidence and gentleness, he put no
more inquiries.
"Forget it all," he murmured, caressing her; and with a deep sigh, the
sigh of tired childhood, she answered, "Yes."
The long summer days, laden with happiness for these two, sailed onward to
their sunset havens. After a time, as August drew near its perfumed death,
Alice began to speak of a journey which she should soon be obliged to make
to New York.
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