ime when I loved her; and, for the sake of
that time, help me to feel and act generously toward her.'

As Leta gazed upon him, and saw how his late imperiousness had given
place to earnest, sorrowful entreaty, she hesitated for the moment how
to answer him. There is, perhaps, a latent sympathy in the hardest
heart; and despite her resolve to become at once lost and unpitying,
some sparks of tender feeling, kindled into life by her parting with
Cleotos, yet glimmered in her breast. Cleotos having gone away, she felt
strangely lonesome. Little as she had regarded him when present, it now
seemed as though, in separating from him, she had lost a portion of her
own being. Certainly with him had departed the last link that bound her
to her native land; and though she never expected to return thither, yet
it was not pleasant to feel that she had been cut asunder from all
possibility of it. Now, for the moment, she was in the mood to look
around her for a friend to lean upon; and it might be that she could
find that friend in Sergius, if she would consent to let her vengeance
sleep, and would forbear to pursue him with further machinations. His
love, to be sure, was gone from her, never to be restored; but, after
all, might it not be better to retain his friendship than to incur his
hate? And if she were now to make full disclosure of the past, and ask
his pardon, who could estimate the possible limits of the forgiveness
and generosity which, in his newly found happiness, he might extend to
her? And then, now that her plans had failed, what need of inflicting
further misery upon those who, in their former trust, had lavished
kindnesses upon her? And once more her thoughts reverted to Cleotos; and
with that feeling of utter loneliness sinking into her heart, and making
her crave even to be thought well of by another, she reflected how that
friend of her youth would not fail to ask the blessing of the gods upon
her, if ever, in his native home, he were to hear that she had acted a
generous part, and, by a few simple and easily spoken words, had swept
away the web of mischief which her arts had woven.

'What can I say?' she exclaimed, hesitatingly, as she met the pleading
look which Sergius fastened upon her.

'Say the best you can; so that, though I can never forgive her, I may
not think more harshly of her than I ought. Can I forget that I loved
her for years before I ever met yourself; and that, but for you, I might
be loving