rs not only did not require, but absolutely
forbade, any such symptom of young love as this. Even when their
marriage came, if it must come, it should come without any customary
sign of smartness, without any outward mark of exaltation. It would
have been very good in him to have remained away from her for weeks
and months; but to come upon her thus, on the first morning of her
return, was a cruelty not to be forgiven. These were the feelings
with which Alice regarded her betrothed when he came to see her.

"Alice," said he, coming up to her with his extended hand,--"Dearest
Alice!"

She gave him her hand, and muttered some word which was inaudible
even to him; she gave him her hand, and immediately endeavoured to
resume it, but he held it clenched within his own, and she felt that
she was his prisoner. He was standing close to her now, and she could
not escape from him. She was trembling with fear lest worse might
betide her even than this. She had promised to marry him, and now she
was covered with dismay as she felt rather than thought how very far
she was from loving the man to whom she had given this promise.

"Alice," he said, "I am a man once again. It is only now that I can
tell you what I have suffered during these last few years." He still
held her hand, but he had not as yet attempted any closer embrace.
She knew that she was standing away from him awkwardly, almost
showing her repugnance to him; but it was altogether beyond her power
to assume an attitude of ordinary ease. "Alice," he continued, "I
feel that I am a strong man again, armed to meet the world at all
points. Will you not let me thank you for what you have done for me?"

She must speak to him! Though the doing so should be ever so painful
to her, she must say some word to him which should have in it a sound
of kindness. After all, it was his undoubted right to come to her,
and the footing on which he assumed to stand was simply that which
she herself had given to him. It was not his fault if at this moment
he inspired her with disgust rather than with love.

"I have done nothing for you, George," she said, "nothing at all."
Then she got her hand away from him, and retreated back to a sofa
where she seated herself, leaving him still standing in the space
before the fire. "That you may do much for yourself is my greatest
hope. If I can help you, I will do so most heartily." Then she
became thoroughly ashamed of her words, feeling that she was