It was a falsehood indeed, but such a falsehood as may surely be forgiven to a woman as unhappy as Mary Goddard.

It seemed monstrous that the innocent child, who seemed not even to have inherited her father's looks or temper, should be brought up with the perpetual sense of her disgrace before her, should be forced to listen to explanations of her father's crimes and tutored to the comprehension of an inherited shame.
From the first Mary Goddard had concealed the whole matter from the little girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, she had told her that her father was dead.

Dead he might be, she thought, before twelve years were out, and Nellie would be none the wiser.

In twelve years from the time of his conviction Nellie would be in her twenty-first year; if it were ever necessary to tell her, it would be time enough then, for the girl would have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of the horrible consciousness of a great crime hanging over her head.

No child could grow up in such a state as that implied.