closet, lying in accumulated darkness like a
lurking place for crime, what could not it tell me
were the oppressive silence of the tainted attic
once broken? The deep shadows always dwelling
in the corners and under the steep rafters
were only a degree less ghastly, for they seemed
still to curtain it, than the murderous scene
itself; yet they were there, as an irremovable
veil before my eyes, from morning till
evening.

At first there was keen expectation to keep me
up. Every morning, when I heard George Denning's
foot upon the stair, my heart beat with the
hope that to-day he would break through his
awful reserve. Every evening, as he tarried
until all the workmen had left the premises,
sometimes lingering and loitering about with a
restless step and uncertain air, I felt certain
that now he was about to speak. All day long
he was in the same room with me. I could look
at any moment into his set face, or compel him
to reply to my questions about the work; but it
was not possible to tear this secret from him
after he had sealed it down in his inmost heart.
It always seemed so near to me, so close to my
possession; not a minute but it was in his
power to utter it into my hearkening ears, but
no craving, no supplication of mine could force
that minute, or that utterance to come. With a
dreary fellowship of despair and bitter regret, we
were stifling day after day the love, which had
been more the steady and long-tried affection of a
man and woman than the fitful passion of a boy
and girl. There was in his manner a grave and
suffering dignity, but also a hopeless silence. It
was as if some mute, inarticulate being possessed
a knowledge that was essential to me, and I
could read at times a faint hint of it in its
troubled eyes, but could never hear it in its
urgent import.

After twelve months of this desperate conflict
between us, I was told he was going to be married.
The girl was a young, silly, pretty creature, who
took a fancy to him, and did all the wooing
perseveringly herself. I had heard of it in the way
of gossip from the other workmen; but he told
me himself a day or two before his wedding,
speaking in a low and trembling voice, while his
face was turned away from me over his work.
I had nothing to say, and my silence provoked
him. He threw down his tools, and drew nearer
to my table, but slowly and doubtingly.

"Have you no pity?" he cried, with an under
tone of suppressed fierceness; " you are sacrificing
yourself and me for a wild fancy. I have no
secret to tell you; yet you haunt this place with
your pale sickly face, till I would rather see the
ghost of the dead man himself. Rachel, I will
marry you now, if you will have me. Or I will
pay your passage over to America. Only leave
this place. Do not torment me with your
everlasting presence."

"No," I said; " these twelve months my suspicion
has been growing, and I'll remain here till
I've proved it. Maybe I am ordained to be
the avenger of that murder, and I shall find it
out in time; in the appointed time. Marry you,
George Denning? Marry you, when you know,
and I know, that there is a guilty secret on your
soul, perhaps even to the crime of murder. We
are fellow-workpeople, and we will remain so
till the end comes. If there is no consciousness
of sin in you, you will at least tolerate my
presence."

"I cannot," he groaned, " I cannot!" and he
strode across the floor, and mounted the winding
staircase into the paper-room above, where he
stayed during the rest of the day, being busy, as
it seemed, with the crowded reams of paper,
with which our present employer overstocked
himself until the attic was filled to the roof. I
made an errand once to follow him, and found
him toiling, with all his great strength, at arranging
the heavy packages; and when the time for
leaving work came, and he passed through the
binding-room where I was getting my tea, he
looked faint and haggard with exhaustion.
During the past winter I had left off lighting my
fire in the kitchen, choosing to sit by the one
kept burning in the workroom; and all that
night I fancied I heard again the heavy sounds
of his day's toil in the attic overhead.

He was married on a Sunday, and came back
to work the next day, not allowing himself and
his silly young wife even a brief holiday; and
once, when in the folly of the first month of
marriage, she made an excuse to follow him to
his workshop, she went home in tears from his
stern chiding. I thought his marriage would
not touch me; yet it made a vital difference.
Hitherto there had been a subtle hope underlying
all my suspicion, that the secret was less
deadly than I feared, so that once known to me
with its extenuating circumstances, there might
still be a possibility of loving him again, but its
confession, or its discovery, now could never
reunite us. That was over; and only for Willie's
sake, who wrote piteous and heart-broken letters
from his place of banishment, I would persevere
to the end. A new form of my life began, with
no hope in it; only a feverish anxiety in its
stead. We were together day after day; more
together than he and his wife. As I sat at my
sewing-press, stitching the sheets that he bound
into books, there was for both the perpetual
consciousness of the other's presence. Almost
every word that varied the quiet of that dreary
room was spoken by his voice or mine. Few
footsteps crossed the floor save ours. Every
movement of the one was heard, seen, felt by
the other. I had only to glance aside from my
press, and my eye caught his face, grim and stony,
yet with flashes of despair under my scrutiny.
It was necessary for him to speak to me often,
to give directions or to ask questions about my
work, and his voice always faltered as he spoke,
but never changed in tone as it did if he were
compelled to utter my name. On my side I was
very calm, but always watching. Whenever he
mounted the corner staircase, his last glance