and the truth told. I had crept
like an untrusty man into the poor maid's affections; she was in my
hand like any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon of
defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that Heineccius, my old
protection, was now burned. I repented, yet could not find it in my
heart to blame myself for that great failure. It seemed not possible to
have resisted the boldness of her innocence or that last temptation of
her weeping. And all that I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear
the greater--it was upon a nature so defenceless, and with such
advantages of the position, that I seemed to have practised.

What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in the
one place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without either choice or
fault of ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that narrow
place. I had a wild thought of marrying out of hand; and the next moment
put it from me with revolt. She was a child, she could not tell her own
heart; I had surprised her weakness, I must never go on to build on that
surprisal; I must keep her not only clear of reproach, but free as she
had come to me.

Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and repented, and beat my
brains in vain for any means of escape. About two of the morning, there
were three red embers left, and the house and all the city was asleep,
when I was aware of a small sound of weeping in the next room. She
thought that I slept, the poor soul; she regretted her weakness--and
what perhaps (God help her!) she called her forwardness--and in the dead
of the night solaced herself with tears. Tender and bitter feelings,
love and penitence and pity, struggled in my soul; it seemed I was under
bond to heal that weeping.

"O, try to forgive me!" I cried out, "try, try to forgive me. Let us
forget it all, let us try if we'll no' can forget it."

There came no answer, but the sobbing ceased. I stood a long while with
my hands still clasped as I had spoken; then the cold of the night laid
hold upon me with a shudder, and I think my reason reawakened.

"You can make no hand of this, Davie," thinks I. "To bed with you, like
a wise lad, and try if you can sleep. To-morrow you may see your way."

CHAPTER XXV

THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE

I was called on the morrow out of a late and troubled slumber by a
knocking on my door, ran to open it, and had almost swooned with the
contrariety of my feelings, mostly