mon?"

"God forgive you, yes. In Heaven's name--then--long ago, when you came
to Hatchstead--what then? Weren't you then----"

"No gem," said she. "Even then a pebble." Her voice sank a little, as
though for a single moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. "A common
pebble," she added, echoing my words.

"Then God forgive you," said I again, and I leant my head on my hand.

"And you, good Simon, do you forgive me?"

I was silent. She moved away petulantly, crying,

"You're all so ready to call on God to forgive! Is forgiveness God's
only? Will none of you forgive for yourselves? Or are you so righteous
that you can't do what God must?"

I sprang up and came to her.

"Forgive?" I cried in a low voice. "Ay, I'll forgive. Don't talk of
forgiveness to me. I came to love."

"To love? Now?" Her eyes grew wide in wonder, amusement, and delight.

"Yes," said I.

"You loved the gem; you'd love the pebble? Simon, Simon, where is Madame
your mother, where my good friend the Vicar? Ah, where's your virtue,
Simon?"

"Where yours shall be," I cried, seizing and covering her hands in mine.
"Where yours, there mine, and both in love that makes delight and virtue
one." I caught a hand to my lips and kissed it many times. "No sin comes
but by desire," said I, pleading, "and if the desire is no sin, there is
no sin. Come with me! I will fulfil all your desire and make your sin
dead."

She shrank back amazed; this was strange talk to her; yet she left her
hand in mine.

"Come with you? But whither, whither? We are no more in the fields at
Hatchstead."

"We could be again," I cried. "Alone in the fields at Hatchstead."

Even now she hardly understood what I would have, or, understanding,
could not believe that she understood rightly.

"You mean--leave--leave London and go with you? With you alone?"

"Yes--alone with your husband."

She pulled her hand away with a jerk, crying, "You're mad!"

"May be. Let me be mad, and be mad yourself also, sweetheart. If both of
us are mad, what hurt?"

"What, I--I go--I leave the town--I leave the Court? And you?--You're
here to seek your fortune!"

"Mayn't I dream that I've found it?" And again I caught her hand.

After a moment she drew nearer to me; I felt her fingers press mine in
tenderness.

"Poor Simon!" said she with a little laugh. "Indeed he remembers Cydaria
well. But Cydaria, such as she was, even Cydaria is gone. And now I am
not she." Then she laughed again,