ould write him a letter to assure him of his acquittal,
she summoned herself before the court of her conscience; and this was a
very different case from the one which had been so easily decided. Then
the presumption was all in favor of the accused; now it was all against
her. The guilt was as good as admitted beforehand, for as soon as
Lettice began to examine and cross-examine herself, she became painfully
aware of her transgressions.

What was this weight which oppressed her, and stifled her, and covered
her with shame? It was not merely sorrow for the misfortunes of her
friend. That would not have made her ashamed, for she knew well that
compassion was a woman's privilege, for which she has no reason to
blush. Something had befallen her this very morning which had caused her
to blush, and it was the first time in all her life that Lettice's cheek
had grown red for anything she had done, or thought, or said, or
listened to, in respect of any man whatever. Putting her father and
brother on one side, no man had had the power, for very few had had the
opportunity, to quicken the pulses in her veins as they were quickened
now. She had not lived to be six and twenty years old without knowing
what love between a man and woman really meant, but she had never
appropriated to herself the good things which she saw others enjoying.
It was not for want of being invited to the feast, for several of her
father's curates had been ready to grace their frugal boards by her
presence, and to crown her with the fillets of their dignity and
self-esteem. The prospect held up to her by these worthy men had not
allured her in any way; she had not loved their wine and oil, and thus
she had remained rich, according to the promise of the seer, with the
bread and salt of her own imaginings.

It would be wrong to suppose that Lettice had no strong passions,
because she had never loved, or even thought that she loved. The woman
of cultivated mind is often the woman of deepest feeling; her mental
strength implies her calmness, and the calm surface indicates the
greatest depth. It is in the restless hearts which beat themselves
against the shores of the vast ocean of womanhood that passion is so
quick to display itself, so vehement in its shallow force, so broken in
its rapid ebb. The real strength of humanity lies deep below the
surface; but a weak woman often mistakes for strength her irresistible
craving for happiness and satisfaction. It is pre