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did?” said Egbert.
    “I never blamed you much,” she murmured with arch simplicity. “Why should it be wrong for me to be honest with you now, and tell everything you want to know?”
    Mayne was silent. That was a difficult question for a conscientious man to answer. Here was he nearly twenty-one years of age, and with some experience of life, while she was a girl nursed up like an exotic, with no real experience; and but little over seventeen — though from the fineness of her figure she looked more womanly than she really was. It plainly had not crossed her young mind that she was on the verge of committing the most horrible social sin — that of loving beneath her, and owning that she so loved. Two years thence she might see the imprudence of her conduct, and blame him for having led her on. Ought he not, then, considering his grandfather’s words, to say that it was wrong for her to be honest; that she should forget him, and fix her mind on matters appertaining to her order? He could not do it — he let her drift sweetly on.
    “I think more of you than of anybody in the whole world,” he replied. “And you will allow me to, will you not? — let me always keep you in my heart, and almost worship you?”
    “That would be wrong. But you may think of me, if you like to, very much; it will give me great pleasure. I don’t think my father thinks of me at all — or anybody, except you. I said the other day I would never think of you again, but I have done it, a good many times. It is all through being obliged to care for somebody whether you will or no.”
    “And you will go on thinking of me?”
    “I will do anything to — oblige you.”
    Egbert, on the impulse of the moment, bent over her and raised her little hand to his lips. He reverenced her too much to think of kissing her cheek. She knew this, and was thrilled through with the delight of being adored as one from above the sky.
    Up to this day of its existence their affection had been a battle, a species of antagonism wherein his heart and the girl’s had faced each other, and being anxious to do honour to their respective parts. But now it was a truce and a settlement, in which each one took up the other’s utmost weakness, and was careless of concealing his and her own.
    Surely, sitting there as they sat then, a more unreasoning condition of mind as to how this unequal conjunction would end never existed. They swam along through the passing moments, not a thought of duty on either side, not a further thought on his but that she was the dayspring of his life, that he would die for her a hundred times; superadded to which was a shapeless uneasiness that she would in some manner slip away from him. The solemnity of the event that had just happened would have shown up to him any ungenerous feeling in strong colours — and he had reason afterwards to examine the epoch narrowly; but it only seemed to demonstrate how instinctive and uncalculating was the love that worked within him.
    It was almost time for her to leave. She held up her watch to the moonlight. Five minutes more she would stay; then three minutes, and no longer. “Now I am going,” she said. “Do you forgive me entirely?”
    “How shall I say ‘yes’ without assuming that there was something to forgive?”
    “Say ‘yes.’ It is sweeter to fancy I am forgiven than to think I have not sinned.”
    With this she went to the door. Egbert accompanied her through the wood, and across a portion of the park, till they were about a hundred yards from the house, when he was forced to bid her farewell.
    The old man was buried on the following Sunday. During several weeks afterwards Egbert’s sole consolation under his loss was in thinking of Geraldine, for they did not meet in private again till some time had elapsed. The ultimate issue of this absorption in her did not concern him at all: it seemed to be in keeping with the system of his existence now that he should have an utterly