"I see what you mean, uncle. I hadn' thot o' she just then. Iss fay, you'm
right theer. Ban't no work o' mine to tell 'bout her."
She hesitated, and the old man spoke again.
"I s'pose that a bit o' prayer wouldn' shaw light on it--eh, Polly? Wi'out
gwaine to Sancreed. The Lard knaws your fix better'n what any words 'ud put
it clear to passon. An' theer's yourself tu. 'Pears to me, axin' your
pardon, for you'm clever'n what I am, that 'tedn' a tale what you can put
out 'fore any other body 'sactly--even a holy man like him."
She saw at once that it was not. Her custom had been to get the
kind-hearted old clergyman of her parish church to soothe the doubts and
perplexities which not seldom rose within her strenuous mind. And before
this great, crushing problem, with the pretext of the one difficulty which
had tumbled uppermost from the chaos and so been grasped as a reality, she
had naturally turned to her guide and friend. But, as her uncle spoke, she
saw that in truth this matter could not be laid naked before any man.
Another's hidden life was involved; another's secret must come out if all
was told, and Mary's sense of justice warned her that this could not be.
She had taken her own mighty grief to the little parsonage at Sancreed, and
a kindly counselor, who knew sorrow at first hand, helped her upon the road
that henceforth looked so lonely and so long; but this present trial,
though it tore the old wounds open, must be borne alone.
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