I suspect, however,
as I believe I have said, that Martha Moon, in her silence, had pierced
the heart of the mystery, though she _knew_ nothing.
One practical lesson given me now and then in varying form by my uncle, I
at length, one day, suddenly and involuntarily associated with the
darkness that haunted him. In substance it was this: "Never, my little
one, hide anything from those that love you. Never let anything that
makes itself a nest in your heart, grow into a secret, for then at once
it will begin to eat a hole in it." He would so often say the kind of
thing, that I seemed to know when it was coming. But I had heard it as a
thing of course, never realizing its truth, and listening to it only
because he whom I loved said it.
I see with my mind's eye the fine small head and large eyes so far above
me, as we sit beside each other at the deal table. He looked down on me
like a bird of prey. His hair--gray, Martha told me, before he was
thirty--was tufted out a little, like ruffled feathers, on each side. But
the eyes were not those of an eagle; they were a dove's eyes.
"A secret, little one, is a mole that burrows," said my uncle.
The moment of insight was come. A voice seemed suddenly to say within me,
"He has a secret; it is biting his heart!" My affection, my devotion, my
sacred concern for him, as suddenly swelled to twice their size.
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