ll the truth at any
cost."

"And theoretically one should do so," said Hubert, trying to soothe her,
yet feeling himself a corrupter of her innocent candor of mind as he
went on; "but practically it would not be always wise or right. When you
marry, Enid"--he drew her towards him--"you can confess to your husband,
and he will absolve you."

"Perhaps that is what would be best," she answered softly.

"To no man but your husband, Enid."

She drew a quick little sigh.

"You can trust me?" he said, in a still lower voice.

"Oh, yes," she said--"I am sure I can trust you! It was only for a
moment--you must not mind what I said. You will it set all right when
you know."

He was silent, seeing that she had grasped his meaning more quickly than
he had anticipated, and had, in fact, accepted him, quite simply and
confidently, as her husband that was to be. Her child-like trust was at
that moment very bitter to him. He bent his head and kissed her forehead
as a father might have done.

"My dear Enid," he said, "we must remember that you are very young. I
feel that I may be taking advantage of your inexperience--as if some day
you might reproach me for it."

"I told you I did not feel young," she said gently; "but perhaps I
cannot judge. Do what you please."

The listlessness in her voice almost angered Hubert.

"Do you not love me then?" he asked.

"Oh, yes--I always loved you!" said the girl. But there was no look of a
woman's love in her grave eyes. "You were always so kind to me, dear
cousin Hubert; and indeed I feel as if I could trust you absolutely. You
shall decide for me in everything."

There was certainly relief in her tone; but Hubert had looked for
something more.

"I have been wanting to speak to you for several days," he said, "but I
have never had the opportunity before; and I must tell you, dear, that I
spoke to the General before I spoke to you."

"Oh," Enid's fair face flushed a little. "I thought--I did not know that
you intended--when you began to speak to me first, I mean----"

Hubert could not help smiling.

"I understand; you thought I spoke on a sudden impulse of affection,
longing to comfort and help you. So I did. But that is not incompatible
with previous thought and preparation, is it? Surely my care for you--my
love for you--would be worth less as a sudden growth than as a plant of
long and hardy growth?" He groaned inwardly at the subterfuge contained
in the last few words, but