arn all you would have told
me--and a trifle more, I imagine.'

'Impossible, for I would have told you all!' cried she,
passionately--'but I won't now, for I see you are not worthy of it!'

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

'Why not, may I ask?'

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.

'Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened to
my traducers--my confidence would be misplaced in you--you are not the
man I thought you. Go! I won't care what you think of me.'

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as much
as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute after,
I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me still
beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind. It was a
look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I
immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and affected to be gazing
carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on; for after lingering
awhile to see if she would come back or call, I ventured one more glance,
and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up the field, with little
Arthur running by her side and apparently talking as he went; but she
kept her face averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable
emotion. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It
was evident she loved me--probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and
wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her less
to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me; but now
the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind, as I
supposed,--between my former and my present opinion of her, was so
harrowing--so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every
lighter consideration.

But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would
have given me--or would give now, if I pressed her for it--how much she
would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed
to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, and
how much to hate;--and, what was more, I would know. I would see her
once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, before
we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still I could
not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so much
unkind