f some
man from among the men of this world. You will set him apart from all
other men as yours, and he will be happy, having been blessed beyond
deserving. You will not regret coming here; but you will desire our
friendship to cease; and what has been to be no more, while the tincture
of life is in your veins. Sheila, read this thing, for it is the rest of
the story until now."

He handed her the papers, and she took them with an inclination of the
head which said: "Give it to me. I will read it now while my eyes can
still bear to read it. I have laid on my heart the nettle of shame, and
while it is still burning there I will read all that you have to teach
me."

"I will go out in the garden while you read it," he said. "In a
half-hour I will come back, and then we can say good-bye," he added,
with pain in his voice, but firmly.

"No, do not go," she urged. "Sit here on the bench--at the end of it
here," she said, motioning with her hand.

He shook his head in negation. "No, I will go and say to your mother
that I have told you, and ease her mind, for I know she herself meant to
tell you."

As he went he looked at her face closely. It was so young, so pathetic,
so pale, yet so strangely beautiful, and her forehead was serene. That
was one of her characteristics. In all her life, her forehead remained
untroubled and unlined. Only at her mouth and in her eyes did misery or
sorrow show. He looked into her eyes now, and he was pleased with what
he saw; for they had in them the glow of understanding and the note of
will which said: "You and I are parted, but I believe in you, and I will
not show I am a weak woman by futile horror. We shall meet no more, but
I shall remember you."

That was what he saw, and it was what he wished to see. He knew her
character would stand the test of any trial, and it had done so. Horror
had struck her, but had not overwhelmed her. She had cried out in
her agony, but she had not been swept out into chaos. She had no weak
passions and no futilities. But as he turned away now, it was with the
sharp conviction that he had dealt a blow from which the girl would
recover, but would never be the same again. She was rich "beyond the
dreams of avarice," but that would not console her. She had resources
within herself, had what would keep her steady. Her real power and
force, her real hope, were in her regnant soul which was not to be
cajoled by life's subterfuges. Her lips opened now, as though