eemed to me to be one thing, you have been another. You have
been acting a part from the first moment in which we met, and have
kept it up all through with admirable consistency. You are not that
sweetly innocent creature which I have believed you to be."

She knew that she was all that he had fancied her, but she could not
say so. She had understood him thoroughly when he had told her that
she had been to him the cool water in which the heated man might
bathe his limbs; that she was the treasure to be kept at home. Even
in her misery, something of delight had come to her senses as she
heard him say that. The position described to her had been exactly
that which it had been her ambition to fill. She knew that in spite
of all that had come and gone she was still fit to fill it. There had
been nothing,--not a thought to mar her innocence, her purity, her
woman's tenderness. She was all his, and he was certain to know every
thought of her mind and every throb of her heart. She did believe
that if he could read them all, he would be perfectly satisfied. But
she could not tell him that it was so. Words so spoken will be the
sweetest that can fall into a man's ear,--if they be believed. But
let there come but the shadow of a doubt over the man's mind, let him
question the sincerity of a tone, and the words will become untrue,
mawkish and distasteful. A thing perfect in beauty! How was she to
say that she would be that to him? And yet, understanding her error
as she had done with a full intelligence, she could have sworn that
it should be so. The beauty he had spoken of was not simply the sheen
of her loveliness, nor the grace of her form. It was the entirety of
her feminine attraction, including the purity of her soul, which was
in truth still there in all its perfection. But she could not tell
him that he was mistaken in doubting her. Now he had told her that
she was not that innocent creature which he had believed her to be.
What was she to do? How was she to restore herself to his favour?
But through it all there was present to her an idea that she would
not humble herself too far. To the extent of the sin which she had
committed she would humble herself if she knew how to do that without
going beyond it. But further than that in justice both to him and
to herself she would not go. "If you have condemned me," she said,
"there must be an end of it,--for the present."

"Condemned you! Do you not condemn yourself? Have you a