threshed the matter out. And then in the Long Meadow, he had set the
girlish feet upon the trail he had blazed out for them during the
nights of temptation and days of lonely self-abnegation.

It was a hard, stumbling way he had fixed upon. His heart yearned over
the girl even as he urged her on. But Joyce was demanding her woman's
rights. Demanding them none the less insistently, because she was
unconscious of their nature. He knew, and he must go before her; but
there was small choice of way.

When he had held her in his arms out there in the open, he had bidden
her farewell with much the same feeling that one has who kisses the
unconscious lips of a child, and leaves him to the doubtful issue of a
necessary surgical operation.

But the victory over self was his, and Joyce was on Life's table. There
was a sort of feverish comfort now in contemplating what might have
been. Many a man--and he knew this only too well--would have put up a
strong plea for the opposite course.

What was he resigning her to at the best? There was no conceit in the
thought that, had he beckoned, Joyce would have leaped into the circle
of his love and protection. Not in any low or self-seeking sense would
the girl have responded--of that, too, he was aware; but as a lovely
blossom caressed by favouring sun and light, forgetting the slime and
darkness of its origin, she might have burst into a bloom of beauty.

Yes, beauty! Gaston fiercely thought. Instead--there was honour! His
honour and hers, and the benediction of Society--if Society ever
penetrated to the North Solitude.

Joyce would forget her soul vision, she would marry Jock Filmer--no; it
was Jude Lauzoon who, for some unknown, girlish reason, she had
preferred when she had been cast out from the circle of his, Gaston's
protection.

Yes, she would marry Jude--and Jock might have made her laugh
occasionally--Jude, never! She would live in cramped quarters, and have
a family of children to drag her from her individual superiority to
their everlasting demands upon her. Perhaps Jude would treat her,
eventually, as other St. Ange husbands treated their wives. At that
thought Gaston's throat contracted, but a memory of the girl's strange,
uplifted dignity gave him heart to hope.

Again the reverse of the picture was turned toward him. He saw her
flitting about his home--who was there to hold her back, or care that
she had sought dishonour instead of honour?

He might have trained