her with a tender
earnestness, as though his very soul were in the glance. She covered her
face with her hands.

"Alice," he said, "you know what that name once meant to me. I cannot
speak it now without a feeling beyond utterance."

Easelmann, meanwhile, quietly sidled towards the door, and, saying that
he was going back to see Mrs. Sandford, abruptly left the room.

Greenleaf went on,--"I know my conduct was utterly inexcusable; but I
declare, by my hope of heaven, I never _loved_ any woman but you. I was
fascinated, ensnared, captivated by the senses only; now that illusion
is past, and I turn to you."

"My illusion is past also; you turn too late. Can you make me forget
those months of neglect?"

The tone was tender, but mournful. How he wished that her answer had
been fuller of rebuke! He could hope to overcome her anger far more
easily than this settled sorrow.

"I know I can never atone for the wrong; there are injuries that are
irreparable, wounds that leave ineffaceable scars. I can never undo what
I have done; would to Heaven I could! You may never forget this period
of suffering; but that is past now; it is not to be lived over again. Go
back rather to the brighter days before it; think of them, and then look
down the future;--may I dare say it?--the future, perhaps, will make us
both forget my insane wanderings and your undeserved pains."

"But love must have faith to lean upon. While I loved you, I rested on
absolute trust. I would have believed you against all the world. I would
have been glad to share your lot, even in poverty and obscurity. I did
not love you for your art nor your fame. You wavered; you forgot me. I
don't know what it was that tempted you, but it was enough; it drew
you away from me; and as long as you preferred another, or could be
satisfied with any other woman's love, you lost all claim to mine."

Greenleaf could not but feel the force of this direct, womanly logic: in
its clear light how pitiful were the excuses he had framed for himself!
He felt sure that many, even of the best of men, might have erred in the
same way; but this was an argument which would have much more weight
with his own sex than with women. Men know their own frailties, and
are therefore charitable; women consider inconstancy to be the one
unpardonable sin, and are inexorable.

He came still nearer, vainly hoping to see some indication of relenting;
but the pale face was as firm as it was sad.

"I sai