o it was with Harold. He knew that he was ignorant of women,
and of woman's nature, as distinguished from man's. The only woman he
had ever known well was Stephen; and she in her youth and in her
ignorance of the world and herself was hardly sufficient to supply to him
data for his present needs. To a clean-minded man of his age a woman is
something divine. It is only when in later life disappointment and
experience have hammered bitter truth into his brain, that he begins to
realise that woman is not angelic but human. When he knows more, and
finds that she is like himself, human and limited but with qualities of
purity and sincerity and endurance which put his own to shame, he
realises how much better a helpmate she is for man than could be the
vague, unreal creations of his dreams. And then he can thank God for His
goodness that when He might have given us Angels He did give us women!

Of one thing, despite the seeming of facts, he was sure: Stephen did not
love Leonard. Every fibre of his being revolted at the thought. She of
so high a nature; he of so low. She so noble; he so mean. Bah! the
belief was impossible.

Impossible! Herein was the manifestation of his ignorance; anything is
possible where love is concerned! It was characteristic of the man that
in his mind he had abandoned, for the present at all events, his own
pain. He still loved Stephen with all the strength of his nature, but
for him the selfish side ceased to exist. He was trying to serve
Stephen; and every other thought had to give way. He had been satisfied
that in a manner she loved him in some way and in some degree; and he had
hoped that in the fulness of time the childish love would ripen, so that
in the end would come a mutual affection which was of the very essence of
Heaven. He believed still that she loved him in some way; but the future
that was based on hope had now been wiped out with a sudden and unsparing
hand. She had actually proposed marriage to another man. If the idea of
a marriage with him had ever crossed her mind she could have had no doubt
of her feeling toward another. . . . And yet? And yet he could not
believe that she loved Leonard; not even if all trains of reasoning
should end by leading to that point. One thing he had at present to
accept, that whatever might be the measure of affection Stephen might
have for him, it was not love as he understood it. He resolutely turned
his back on the thought of