any
consequence.

His mind soon drifted off from this, however, and he got out of bed to
turn on the lights and read the above-mentioned letter. And as he read
it, he grew ashamed. That embrace, those kisses, now seemed an outrage
to him. Was this his return for the sweet confidences, the revelations
of hidden things, with which she had honored him? "You must forget
this," she had written, "only at such times of tenderness as you will
sometimes have when you are gone," and: "When you see me again, . . .
without a word or look from me, know me, even more than you now do,
yours." And after this, he had permitted her allurement to fly to his
brain, and had given her reason to think that because she had lowered
her guard, he had struck her a dastard's blow. His eyes grew soft with
pity, and they moistened, as he repeated to himself, "Poor little girl!
poor little girl!"

Oh, yes! doubtless it was silly of him; but please to remember that he
was quite as far from being blase as--as we used to be; and that he was
just now becoming really in love with Elizabeth. And love is much
nearer kin to pity than pity is to love. So he lay there and pitied
Elizabeth, and wondered when the wedding was to be. He must have Clara
find this out from Brassfield. And he thought regretfully of Madame le
Claire. His reflections thus touched on the two most unhappy women in
Bellevale.

To the hypnotist he had become so much more than a "case," merely, that
a revulsion of feeling was setting in against bringing him here to be
turned over to a woman for whom he cared nothing. It was a shame, she
thought. It was something which no one had a right to expect of any
girl.

And Elizabeth Waldron still sat by the dying fire, her heart full of a
fighting which would not let her sleep. She felt humbled and insulted,
and her face burned as did her heart. But all the time she felt angry
with herself for her inconsistency. She had longed for Eugene's
letters, and when they came, so few and cold, she was grieved. She had
expected a dozen little caresses, even before he left her carriage; and
she was saddened because she missed them. She had thought of his
coming in on her in a manner quite different from that in which he had
actually crept into her presence--and when he had only pressed her
hands, she had felt defrauded and robbed. And when at parting he had
done (somewhat forcibly, it is true) what she had many times allowed,
and what