orgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the question
too early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her. The story of
the struggle has been present to my mind for many years,--and I have
learned to think that even this offence against womanhood may, with
deep repentance, be forgiven. And you also must forgive her before we
close the book, or else my story will have been told amiss.

But let us own that she had sinned,--almost damnably, almost past
forgiveness. What;--think that she knew what love meant, and not know
which of two she loved! What;--doubt, of two men for whose arms she
longed, of which the kisses would be sweet to bear; on which side lay
the modesty of her maiden love! Faugh! She had submitted to pollution
of heart and feeling before she had brought herself to such a pass as
this. Come;--let us see if it be possible that she may be cleansed by
the fire of her sorrow.

"What am I to do?" She passed that whole day in asking herself that
question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which the
conviction had forced itself upon her that a marriage with her cousin
would be to her almost impossible; and could she permit it to be
said of her that she had thrice in her career jilted a promised
suitor,--that three times she would go back from her word because
her fancy had changed? Where could she find the courage to tell her
father, to tell Kate, to tell even George himself, that her purpose
was again altered? But she had a year at her disposal. If only during
that year he would take her money and squander it, and then require
nothing further of her hands, might she not thus escape the doom
before her? Might it not be possible that the refusal should this
time come from him? But she succeeded in making one resolve. She
thought at least that she succeeded. Come what might, she would never
stand with him at the altar. While there was a cliff from which she
might fall, water that would cover her, a death-dealing grain that
might be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George
Vavasor's wife. To no ear could she tell of this resolve. To no
friend could she hint her purpose. She owed her money to the man
after what had passed between them. It was his right to count upon
such assistance as that would give him, and he should have it. Only
as his betrothed she could give it him, for she understood well that
if there were any breach between them, his accepting of such aid
would be impossi