your light. I thought that you had not
gone to sleep. I wanted to come to speak to you." She put her hands on
Miriam's shoulder. "You have been crying."

"Yes," said Miriam, quietly.

"I saw at dinner that you were not yourself--and I am troubled, too. I
have a confession to make."

Miriam looked at her curiously.

"You know that I am your friend--now," the other went on. "Since we
have been here together, we have come to know each other as I never
thought that we should. There was a time before, though, when I did
not understand so well. I had watched you, and I did not like you. I
distrusted you--or, rather, did not trust you----"

"I understand. You were clever enough to see through me----"

"I thought that with your--insincerities that you were all false. I
should have been wise enough to know differently. But what will
you?--to assume evil is easy, and always gives one a proud sense of
superior perspicacity. I condemned you, Miriam, without a hearing, and
I told Arthur Leeds."

"You did it?" the girl murmured, dully.

"Yes, I warned him."

"Why?"

"Because I like him and admire him, and I thought you--dangerous."

"That is why he has said the things he has."

"He has said something?"

"He has told me that I am not worthy of regard or consideration or
respect."

"Impossible!"

"Perhaps not directly--but he has implied that and more--by word and
action. And--and--I love him."

Mrs. Brough sat down quickly in the chair which she had drawn up, and
took Miriam's hands.

"I know you so well now," she said, "that at dinner I saw something
was wrong. I did not realize that it was as bad as that."

"I think I loved him even last winter, when I only saw him--heard who
he was--and did not know him. I admired and respected and reverenced
him. But he seemed different to me. And to-day when I met him I wanted
to tell him a little--as much as I could--of what I thought. I wanted
him to know something of the feeling that I had. I wanted to please
him. I wanted him to be nice to me--because I pleased him. What I said
to him was true--true."

She sprang to her feet, and spoke in deep, tragic tones.

"True!" she repeated. "And I have lost the power of being thought
true. My words can only be considered so many counterfeits. I have so
often debased the true metal of sincerity that anything I say must
ring false--that anything I may give cannot be taken. What I said
sounded fraudulently in my own ears. I cou