"I have something to tell you now--my big secret--that I wrote you
about, you know."
She began in broken sentences, her breath was weak and short, and her
voice like an echo.
"It would not be so long if you knew about--about Bayard,
poor--Bayard, and that dreadful--" she stopped, and a crimson spot
appeared on each pallid cheek. I leaned over her gently, and said in a
soothing whisper:
"May be I do know it, my little woman. Is it about Bayard's
unfortunate marriage? If so, they have told me the whole sad story."
She bowed her head, in answer to my question and muttered feebly:
"I am so glad because I hate to speak of it, but my secret is not
that. Do you know where Inez is now?"
I nodded affirmatively. "Well, first when she went there, Bayard had a
dreadful sickness, and he wanted to die--called out to death at every
moment to come and rescue him, though he was not prepared; he would
not hear of forgiving Inez, he declared he hated her, and was glad of
her affliction, and still, with these sentiments he wanted to die! Oh,
how I prayed against his prayer!" she exclaimed, with an effort of
enthusiasm, "how I begged of God, to turn a deaf ear to his mad
supplication, and lend a willing one to mine. I suffered an agony of
suspense, and at last, the crisis came, he struggled with it,
conquered it, and got better. So far my prayer was heard, but my
trouble was not over, he regained his health and his strength, but he
was a changed man otherwise.
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