seat again, Mrs. Baske."

She obeyed him. He took a chair at a little distance, and answered her
question.

"She came because she was in great distress, and had no friend in whom
she could confide so naturally. This was a misfortune; it should not
have been so. It was to _you_ that she should have gone, and I am
afraid it was your fault that she could not."

"My fault?"

"Yes. You had not behaved to her with sisterly kindness. You had held
apart from her; you had been cold and unsympathetic. Am I unjust?"

"Can one command feelings?"

"That is to say, you _felt_ coldly to her. Are you conscious of any
reason? I believe religious prejudice no longer influences you?"

"No."

"Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind. Do you remember
that you were practically an agent in bringing about Cecily's marriage?
No doubt things would have taken much the same course, however you had
acted. But is it not true that you gave what help was in your power?
You acted as though your brother's suit had your approval. And I think
you alone did so."

"You exaggerate. I know what you refer to. Reuben betrayed my lack of
firmness, as he betrays every one who trusts in him."

"Let us call it lack of firmness. The fact is the same, and I feel very
strongly that it laid an obligation on you. From that day you should
have been truly a sister to Cecily. You should have given her every
encouragement to confide in you. She loved you in those days, in spite
of all differences. You should never have allowed this love to fail."

Miriam kept her eyes on the floor.

"I am afraid," he added, after a pause, "that you won't tell me why you
cannot think kindly of her?"

She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly.

"There _is_ a reason?"

"I can't tell you."

"I have no right to press you to do so. I will rather ask this--I asked
it once before, and had no satisfactory answer--why did you allow me to
think for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my friendship and
gave me yours in return, and then became so constrained in your manner
to me that I necessarily thought I had given you offence?"

She was silent.

"That also you can't tell me?"

She glanced at him--or rather, let her eyes pass over his face--with
the old suggestion of defiance. Her firm-set lips gave no promise of
answer.

Mallard rose.

"Then I must still wait. Some day you will tell me, I think."

He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment