ing, and that merely. It seemed
strangely lacking in the solicitude and affection which she had a
right to expect from her old friend and rector. Bettina was struck
with this, and instantly there flashed over her a reason for it. It
was only natural that he should feel a certain resentment of her
jilting of one of his cousins, even though she had done it in favor
of another and more important one. She remembered that the rector had
been extremely fond of Horace, and at this thought she had a sudden
desire to see him. So she wrote him a note and asked him to come.

It was so long since she had talked with any one, and she was so
nervous after all her morbid imagining, that she was feeling utterly
unlike the old self-reliant, active-minded girl he remembered when
the rector entered the room. She also, on her part, was unprepared
for the feelings aroused by the sight of him; and when he came in,
his grave face and gentle manner so entirely unchanged, in contrast
to all the changes she had undergone, Bettina felt a sudden tendency
to tears. The thought of her mother also helped to weaken her, and
the thought of Horace was a still harder strain on her endurance.

She saw a certain constraint in his manner first, as she had
perceived it in his note. She felt unaccountably hurt by it, and when
he took her hand a little coldly and inquired for her health, a rush
of feelings overwhelmed her and she burst into tears.

In evident surprise, the visitor tried to soothe her as best he
could. Naturally supposing that this grief was in consequence of her
recent widowhood, he pressed her hand, and said, gently:

"I trust you are not overtaxing yourself by seeing me, my child. If
you had preferred not to do so I should not have misunderstood. Your
bereavement is so recent that--"

But Bettina, trying to silence her sobs, interrupted him.

"Oh, forgive me, Mr. Spotswood," she said. "I had not thought I
should break down like this. I have been perfectly calm. It is not
what you suppose. Oh, I feel so wretched, so lonely, so bewildered! I
would give the world if I could speak out my heart to one human
being."

The rector looked surprised, but visibly softened.

"To whom may you speak if not to me, Bettina?" he said. "Surely,
whatever trouble is on your heart, you may count upon my sympathy."

Bettina did not speak. With her face hid in her pocket-handkerchief
she shook her head, as if in dissent from the idea of his sympathy.

F