uch proud
spirits writhe under when honor turns traitor and betrays them to the
enemy. 'Lead us not into temptation.' If it meant anything in the old
habit of child's prayer which clung to him yet, it meant that he should
put himself out of its way, since he had proved himself too weak to meet
it. His inborn honesty let him build no excuses for his failure. He saw,
and acknowledged with a flush of scorn and curling lip, his own
treachery to himself in his hour of need. That he had not committed
himself--that his self-betrayal was only known to self--was no merit of
his--simply a circumstance. And circumstances seemed mighty in their
influence upon him, he thought, with a feeling of deepest contempt. All
pride and self-reliance were taken out of him. Absence, at least, would
be a safeguard, since it would render harmless such impulses as those of
that night. However much he might sin in yearning, she; should never
know, never be exposed to the risk of being drawn into his guilt and
pain. He had come at last to the place where all the old delicate pride
was merged in the one anxious fear that she should suffer. He would go
away the next day; he would not see her again--never see her
voluntarily--putting away fiercely the sudden pang of yearning: not that
he came at once to such a conclusion.

Honor, pride, self-respect, having failed him once, were not easily
recalled to their allegiance. His was no feeble nature, to sin and
repent in an hour. He fought over every inch of his way, and came out at
last conqueror, but scarred and weary and very weak in heart, and
distrustful of himself.

They had gone to ride that afternoon--he had seen them drive away. He
would go down and make the necessary arrangements for his departure. And
so it happened that he stood an hour before sunset in the parlor. A
sudden heart sickness drove the blood from his lips with the wrench of
remembrance. It did not strengthen him to meet her, cool and royal, in
filmy purple, putting out her hand with frank friendliness, and with a
new quaver of interest in her voice. Those fatal magnolias: all the
outside world seemed pressing nearer these two strangers in a strange
land.

'How pale you are! You have been ill again.'

'No,' he said, almost harshly. 'You like tiger lilies,' lifting a stem
crowded with the flaming whirls.

'Like them? yes--don't you? As I like the fiery, deafening drum-roll and
screaming fife, and silver, sweet bugle-calls. Think