ng prone on the sward, her face hidden
on her arms; and it was true that he had heard her sob, for she was
weeping without restraint. The change in him, the evidence of suffering
which she had read in his face, to say nothing of his reproaches, had
done something more than shock her. They had opened her eyes to the
true nature--already dimly seen--of the plan to which she had lent
herself. They had torn the last veil from the selfishness of those with
whom she had acted, their cupidity and their ruthlessness. And they had
shown the man himself in a light so new and startling, that even the
last twenty-four hours had not prepared her for it. The scales of
prejudice which had dimmed her sight fell at length, and wholly, from
her eyes; and, for the first time, she saw him as he was. For the first
time she perceived that, in pursuing the path he had followed, he might
have thought himself right; he might have been moved by a higher motive
than self-interest, he might have been standing for others rather than
for himself. Parts of the passionate rebuke which suffering and
indignation had forced from him remained branded upon her memory; and
she wept in shame, feeling her helplessness, her ignorance, her
inexperience, feeling that she had no longer any sure support or prop.
For how could she trust those who had drawn her into this hideous, this
cruel business? Who, taking advantage at once of her wounded vanity,
and her affection for her brother, had led her to this act, from which
she now shrank in abhorrence?

There was only, of all about her, Uncle Ulick to whom she could turn,
or on whom she could depend. And he, though he would not have stooped
to this, was little better, she knew, than a broken reed. The sense of
her loneliness, the knowledge that those about her used her for their
own ends--and those the most unworthy--overwhelmed her; and in
proportion as she had been proud and self-reliant, was her present
abasement.

When the first passion of self-reproach had spent itself, she heard him
calling her by name, and in a voice that stirred her heart-strings. She
rose, first to her knees and then to her feet, and, averting her face,
"I will open the door," she said, humbly and in a broken voice. "I have
brought the key."

He did not answer, and she did not unlock. For as, still keeping her
face averted that he might not see her tears, she turned the corner of
the Tower to gain the door, her brother's head and shoulder