ed him, and yet she hated to have him go; for then she would
be left to herself and her own thoughts. As she crept up the long
stairs to her room, she asked herself if she could be the same girl who
had poured tea at Mrs. Westley's, and talked to all those refined
people, who seemed to admire her and make much of her, as if she were
one of them. Before, she had escaped from the toils of that folly of
the past by disowning it; but now, she had voluntarily made it hers.
She had wilfully entangled herself in its toils; they seemed to trip
her steps, and make her stumble on the stairs as if they were tangible
things. She had knowingly suffered such a man as that, whose commonness
of soul she had always instinctively felt, to come back into her life,
and she could never banish him again. She could never even tell any
one; she was the captive of her shabby secret till he should come again
and openly claim her. He would come again; there could be no doubt of
that.

On the bureau before her glass lay a letter. It was from Ludlow, and it
delicately expressed the hope that there had been nothing in his manner
of offering to help her with her picture which made it impossible for
her to accept. "I need not tell you that I think you have talent, for I
have told you that before. I have flattered myself that I had a
personal interest in it, because I saw it long ago, and I have been
rather proud of thinking that you were making use of me. I wish you
would think the matter over, and decide to go on with your picture of
Miss Maybough. I promise to reduce my criticism to a minimum, for I
think it is more important that you should keep on in your own way,
even if you go a little wrong in it, now and then, than that you should
go perfectly right in some one's else. Do let me hear from you, and say
that I may come Saturday to Miss Maybough's studio, and silently see
what you are doing."

In a postscript he wrote: "I am afraid that I have offended you by
something in my words or ways. If I have, won't you at least let me
come and be forgiven?"

She dropped her face on the letter where it lay open before her, and
stretched out her arms, and moaned in a despair that no tears even came
to soften. She realized how much worse it was to have made a fool of
herself than to be made a fool of.

XXIX.

There was only one thing for Cornelia to do now, and she did it as well
as she knew how, or could hope to know without the help that she