an
interest in me; she was anxious about me. I saw power in her; I owed her
gratitude. She aided me substantially and effectively with a loan of
five thousand pounds. Could I believe she loved me? With an admiration
dedicated entirely to myself I smiled at her being the first to love and
to show it. That whip of yours seems to have a good heavy handle. Knock
me out of the saddle with it if you choose, for I never felt as if
nature meant her to be my other and better self. Yet I walked up to
Fieldhead and in a hard, firm fashion offered myself--my fine person--
with all my debts, of course, as a settlement. There was no
misunderstanding her aspect and voice as she indignantly ejaculated:
'God bless me!' Her eyes lightened as she said: 'You have pained me; you
have outraged me; you have deceived me. I did respect, I did admire, I
did like you, and you would immolate me to that mill--your Moloch!' I
was obliged to say, 'Forgive me!' To which she replied, 'I could if
there was not myself to forgive too, but to mislead a sagacious man so
far I must have done wrong.' She added, 'I am sorry for what has
happened.' So was I, God knows."

It was after this talk that Moore was shot down by a concealed assassin.

_V.--Love Scenes_

On the very night that Robert Moore arrived at his cottage in the
Hollow, after being nursed back to life in the house of the neighbour
who was with him when he was shot by a fanatical revolutionist, he
scribbled a note to ask his cousin Caroline to call, as was her wont
before the days of misunderstanding.

"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Robert.
"What is the source of the sunshine I perceive about you?"

"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her more tenderly every day.
And I am glad you are better, and that we are friends."

"Cary, I mean to tell you some day a thing about myself that is not to
my credit. I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I
deserve."

"But I believe I know all about it. I inferred something, gathered more
from rumour, and made out the rest by instinct."

"I wanted to marry Shirley for the sake of her money, and she refused me
scornfully; you needn't prick your fingers with your needle, that is the
plain truth--and I had not an emotion of tenderness for her."

"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."

"And very mean, my little pastor; but, Cary, I had no love to give--no
heart that I could ca