"You're long in coming to show it," she complained. "You've been very
unkind."

"I used to come quick enough and often enough," he rejoined in the
subdued tone.

"Yes, and then you stayed away of a sudden, and when I asked you the
reason, you laughed at me and deserted me altogether, when you knew I
looked to you for advice and assistance, and had most need of them."

Her reproach stung him. The charge of unfaithfulness to a friend was
one he took keenly. There was a mingled sternness and entreaty in his
voice when he replied:

"Won't you let that go now? This is no time for bandying reproaches. I
think I was your faithful friend for a long while. If I failed in my
duty to you, I am sure I did not know it. And if I changed, it was
because I thought I had been mistaken and had been going for years
with my eyes shut. I thought I had been a fool and it was time----but
that's of no account now. I am your friend still; let me prove it."

But she persisted in her high, child-like complaint.

"Was it my fault, then, you had not seen me, truly? I never tried to
deceive you. I always put confidence in you and talked frankly to you,
as I never did to any one else. And you know I've had a hard time. I
was never meant for the tiresome, lonely life I've had. I never wanted
to be a pattern and model of usefulness and self-forgetfulness, but
they would have me so, and I couldn't go out in the streets and tell
them I was not. I've had to play the part till I'm tired. I've had to
walk demurely, and talk and smile to people I despised, and do all
sorts of miserable things. But I never pretended to you. You knew I
was not satisfied or happy. I used to tell you all my troubles and ask
your advice about everything. And you know you said harsh things to me
sometimes. You knew me better than any one else, and I did not think
you would ever treat me so. Did you think only of what was due to
yourself, and that our long friendship and the reliance you had
encouraged me to place in you gave me no claim upon you?"

Her words hurt and agitated him greatly. Was she right? and had he
been doubly blind? In this grieved, reproachful, petulant humor, she
seemed a different being from the Cora Brainard he had had in his
thought these last months; she was the little girl that the big boy,
Lawrence Enfield, had protected and drawn on his sled, the maiden he
had cherished in his heart for many a day; and he had been purer and
braver for the thought