child at its mother's knee, and with a degree of
self-accusation that might well have disarmed condemnation, as indeed
it did.

Up to the time of her meeting with Horace in England, she kept back
nothing, describing with absolute truth her feelings as well as her
conduct. When she had reached that point, however, a sense of
instinctive reserve came to her, and a few brief sentences described
what had happened since.

At the end of her recital she paused, looking eagerly into the
rector's face, as if she both hoped and feared what he might say.

"Truly, my child, it is a wretched story," he began, as if a little
careful in the choosing of his words, "but the knowledge of it has
deepened instead of lessened my sympathy for you. Your fault has been
very great, but so is your sense of compunction; and as far as
suffering can expiate, surely you have done much to atone. My own
knowledge of the character of the late Lord Hurdly was such that I
cannot pretend to be greatly surprised at what you have told me
concerning him. I regret to say it, but justice must be done to the
living as well as to the dead. The present Lord Hurdly will prove, I
trust and believe, an honor to the name. My intercourse with him has
been comparatively limited, but no young man has ever inspired me
with a stronger sense of confidence. So much do I feel this that I
will confess to a strong desire that he should know upon what ground
you acted toward him as you did. I have given my word to you,
however, and perhaps it is as well. That poor man so lately gone to
his account has stains enough upon his memory without this added one.
And when I think of Horace--what he has suffered through the
treachery of his kinsman--I feel that it is perhaps kindest to him
also to leave this dark secret in the oblivion which buries it in our
two hearts."

Bettina seemed not to hear his last words.

"He has suffered? You think he has suffered, and through me?"

"Is it possible that you can doubt it?"

"He gave no sign," began Bettina, hesitatingly.

"To you--certainly not. How could he?"

"Did he to you?" she said, breathlessly.

The rector looked at her with a sort of sad scrutiny, and was silent
a moment. Then he said:

"He wrote me one letter--the most brokenhearted expression of
suffering I have ever read. It was before your marriage, when he
still had some slight hope that you had mistaken your own feelings,
in the statement of them which you had made