thdrew in silence, leaving her
mistress alone with the consciousness that Horace was in the very
house with her, and that at any moment she might, if she chose, go
to him and tell him all the truth.

And why did she not? That old feeling between them was quite dead.
She had a right to clear herself from a condemnation which she did
not deserve--a right, at least, to make known the palliating
circumstances in the case. In any other conceivable instance she
would not have hesitated to do so. What was it, then, which made it
so impossible in this instance?

The answer to this question leaped up in her heart, and so struggled
for recognition that she had an instinct to run away from herself
that she might not have to face it. She wanted to close her eyes, so
that she might shut out the truth that was before her mental vision,
and to put her hands over her ears, that she might not hear the voice
that clamored to her heart.

Surely a part of this feeling was the compunction which she felt for
having wronged him. That she might openly acknowledge. But that was
not all. She was aware of something more in her own heart. Even that
she might have stifled, and, supported by her pride, might have
concisely told him of the error under which she had acted. But there
was still another thing that entered in. This was a faint, delicious,
disturbing, unacknowledged to her own heart, suspicion about Horace
himself. He had said nothing to warrant her in the belief that his
anxiety about her future was anything more than the satisfaction
of his own self-respect, but her heart had said things which she
trembled to hear, and there was a certain evidence of her eyes. In
leaving her the other day--or rather at the moment of her hurried
leaving of him--he had looked at her strangely.

That look had lingered in her consciousness, and without effort she
could recall it now. In doing so her cheeks flushed, her heart beat
quicker. She felt tempted to woo the sweet sensation, and by every
effort of imagination to quicken it into keener life, but the
seductiveness of this temptation terrified her.

She started from her seat and looked about her. How long had she sat
there musing--dreaming dreams which every instinct of womanly pride
compelled her to renounce? She wondered if he had gone. Once more
came that mingled hope and fear that he might seek an interview with
her before leaving. The hope was stronger than ever, and for that
reason the fear