er than
you are, Paul,' stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his
eyes.

'Better than anybody I have ever known,' said Montague with all his
energy.

'I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought
to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul.'

'I do,' said he.

'No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. I
do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes
thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did
not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have
everything that he wants.'

'Where should I have been?'

'Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know,
Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so,
because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is
not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before.
He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an
unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he
never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he made
me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says
must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but I almost
think that I ought to have obeyed him.' Paul Montague of course had
very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did
exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. It
should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises,
should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external
circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her
heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse
him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he
could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing that he had failed to
win her heart. It was very well said,--at least so Hetta thought,--and
she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in
reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for
good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger
should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be
helped. But would it not be right that it should be told? 'Do you know
I almost feel that he is like a father to me,' said Hetta, leaning on
her lover's shoulder.

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that