t trembling, with her hands clenched, and with a
look of scorn upon her lips and brow that he had never seen before;
and then she threw herself on a sofa, and, burying her face, sobbed
aloud, while her whole body was shaken as with convulsions. He leaned
over her repentant, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to speak.
All ideas of his scheme had gone from him now. He had offended her
for ever,--past redemption. What could be the use now of any scheme?
And as he stood there he hated himself because of his scheme. The
utter misery and disgrace of the present moment had come upon him
because he had thought more of himself than of her. It was but a few
moments since she had told him that she trusted him next to her God;
and yet, in those few moments, he had shown himself utterly unworthy
of that trust, and had destroyed all her confidence. But he could not
leave her without speaking to her. "Clara!" he said;--"Clara." But
she did not answer him. "Clara; will you not speak to me? Will you
not let me ask you to forgive me?" But still she only sobbed. For
her, at that moment, we may say that sobbing was easier than speech.
How was she to pardon so great an offence? How was she to resent such
passionate love?

But he could not continue to stand there motionless, all but
speechless, while she lay with her face turned away from him. He must
at any rate in some manner take himself away out of the room; and
this he could not do, even in his present condition of unlimited
disgrace, without a word of farewell. "Perhaps I had better go and
leave you," he said.

Then at last there came a voice, "Oh, Will, why have you done this?
Why have you treated me so badly?" When he had last seen her face
her mouth had been full of scorn, but there was no scorn now in her
voice. "Why--why--why?"

Why indeed;--except that it was needful for him that she should know
the depth of his passion. "If you will forgive me, Clara, I will not
offend you so again," he said.

"You have offended me. What am I to say? What am I to do? I have no
other friend."

"I am a wretch. I know that I am a wretch."

"I did not suspect that you would be so cruel. Oh, Will!"

But before he went she told him that she had forgiven him, and she
had preached to him a solemn, sweet sermon on the wickedness of
yielding to momentary impulses. Her low, grave words sank into his
ears as though they were divine; and when she said a word to him,
blushing as she spoke, of