ents, followed the Biblical precept, and treated
my neighbor very much as I treat myself."

"I did think," continued Bertha, without heeding the remark, "that you
were, at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bred ever to
commit an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad. Now I see
that I have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the
most sacred feelings of a woman's heart in mere wantonness, or for the
sake of satisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the
mind of an upright and generous man."

The hard, benumbed look in Ralph's face thawed in the warmth of her
presence, and her words, though stern, touched a secret spring in his
heart. He made two or three vain attempts to speak, then suddenly broke
down, and cried:

"Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me, have patience with me, and
listen."

And he told her, in rapid, broken sentences, how his love for her had
grown from day to day, until he could no longer master it; and how, in
an unguarded moment, when his pride rose in fierce conflict against his
love, he had done this reckless deed of which he was now heartily
ashamed. The fervor of his words touched her, for she felt that they
were sincere. Large mute tears trembled in her eyelashes as she sat
gazing tenderly at him, and in the depth of her soul the wish awoke
that she might have been able to return this great and strong love of
his; for she felt that in this love lay the germ of a new, of a
stronger and better man. She noticed, with a half-regretful pleasure,
his handsome figure, his delicately shaped hands, and the noble cast of
his features; an overwhelming pity for him rose within her, and she
began to reproach herself for having spoken so harshly, and, as she now
thought, so unjustly. Perhaps he read in her eyes the unspoken wish. He
seized her hand, and his words fell with a warm and alluring cadence
upon her ear.

"I shall not see you for a long time to come, Bertha," said he, "but if
at the end of five or six years your hand is still free, and I return
another man--a man to whom you could safely intrust your
happiness--would you then listen to what I may have to say to you? For
I promise, by all that we both hold sacred--"

"No, no," interrupted she, hastily. "Promise nothing. It would be
unjust to yourself, and perhaps also to me; for a sacred promise is a
terrible thing, Ralph. Let us both remain free; and, if you return and
still love me, then