pon her all this sorrow. He had been right. If he loved
her it was only manly and proper in him to tell his love. And for
herself,--seeing that she had loved, had it not been proper and
womanly in her to declare her love? What had she done; when, at what
point, had she gone astray, that she should be brought to such a pass
as this? At the beginning, when he had held her hand on the spot
where she was now sitting, and again when he had kept her prisoner
in Mr. Tappitt's hall, she had been half conscious of some sin, half
ashamed of her own conduct; but that undecided fear of sin and shame
had been washed out, and everything had been made white as snow, as
pure as running water, as bright as sunlight, by the permission to
love this man which had been accorded to her. What had she since done
that she should be brought to such a pass as that in which she now
found herself?

As she thought of this she was bitter against all the world except
him;--almost bitter against her own mother. She had said that she
would obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well that
she would in truth do as her mother bade her. But, sitting there,
on the churchyard stile, she hatched within her mind plans of
disobedience,--dreadful plans! She would not submit to this usage.
She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of any one, and
would seek him out in his London home. It would be unmaidenly;--but
what cared she now for that;--unless, indeed, he should care? All her
virgin modesty and young maiden fears,--was it not for him that she
would guard them, for his delight and his pride? And if she were to
see him no more, if she were to be forced to bid him go from her,
of what avail would it be now to her to cherish and maintain the
unsullied brightness of her woman's armour? If he were lost to her,
everything was lost. She would go to him, and throwing herself at
his feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longer
possible for her. If he would then take her as his wife she would
strive to bless him with all that the tenderness of a wife could
give. If he should refuse her,--then she would go away and die. In
such case what to her would be the judgment of any man or any woman?
What to her would be her sister's scorn and the malignant virtue
of such as Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong? What the upturned hands and
amazement of Mr. Comfort? It would have been they who had driven her
to this.

But how about her mother when sh