would like to stick close to him like another
sister, to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Kate
would do, and trust herself and her career into the boat which he was
to command. She did not love her cousin; but she still believed in
him,--with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.

As the two days passed over her, her mind grew more and more fixed as
to its purpose. She would tell Mr Grey that she was not fit to be his
wife--and she would beg him to pardon her and to leave her. It never
occurred to her that perhaps he might refuse to let her go. She felt
quite sure that she would be free as soon as she had spoken the word
which she intended to speak. If she could speak it with decision she
would be free, and to attain that decision she would school herself
with her utmost strength. At one moment she thought of telling all to
her father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr Grey; but she
knew that her father would not understand her, and that he would be
very hostile to her,--saying hard, uncomfortable words, which would
probably be spared if the thing were done before he was informed. Nor
would she write to Kate, whose letters to her at this time were full
of wit at the expense of Mrs Greenow. She would tell Kate as soon as
the thing was done, but not before. That Kate would sympathize with
her, she was quite certain.

So the two days passed by and the time came at which John Grey was to
be there. As the minute hand on the drawing-room clock came round to
the full hour, she felt that her heart was beating with a violence
which she could not repress. The thing seemed to her to assume bigger
dimensions than it had hitherto done. She began to be aware that she
was about to be guilty of a great iniquity, when it was too late for
her to change her mind. She could not bring herself to resolve that
she would, on the moment, change her mind. She believed that she
could never pardon herself such weakness. But yet she felt herself to
be aware that her purpose was wicked. When the knock at the door was
at last heard she trembled and feared that she would almost be unable
to speak to him. Might it be possible that there should yet be a
reprieve for her? No; it was his step on the stairs, and there he was
in the room with her.

"My dearest," he said, coming to her. His smile was sweet and loving
as it ever was, and his voice had its usual manly, genial, loving
tone. As he walked across the room A