prize, concerning which he had hesitated,
and made many a mighty wise resolution,
was worth more, far more, than he could
possibly pay for it. He took her hand,
and she allowed it to remain in his for a
moment before she withdrew it.

"Miss Pomeroy, can you forget and
forgive the past?" he began. "I am come
here to put myself at your feet, and to tell
you how ashamed I am of myself, and how
grieved that my mother should have treated
you as she has done. But, make allowances
for her, will you? She did not understand
your position. I understand it all
now."

"Do you?" She shook her head. "It is
hard to understand how a girl can wish to
escape from luxury into servitude. There
is no need to make allowances for Mrs.
Cartaret. It was unjustifiable of me to enter
her house as I did. I see that now. If I
have something to forgive, I have much to
to be forgiven."

"When she comes to know the real
truth——"

"There is no more to be learnt than she
knows," said Maud, quickly.

"My mother is very prejudiced, and
very impetuous. I am afraid that she may
have said . . . . in short, you will forgive
her, won't you?"

"Yes, I forgive her. I have only myself
to thank for the lesson it has taught me. I
must look for work henceforward in other
fields."

"No, not so. . . .  In the same field, only
in another capacity," he said, taking her
hand again. "There is a work which
you've begun, and which you alone can
accomplish."

She looked at him for a moment steadily;
then turned away, and began plucking at
the ivy on the wall.

"Will you not speak? Are you still
angry with me on account of my
conduct?"

Still no answer.

"If your object is to do some good in
the world, you can best do it to me. You
wouldn't have taken so much pains to
reclaim me, I think, if you hated me."

"I have forgiven you the personal
offence to myself," she said, quietly, at
last. "I think of you in sorrow, Mr.
Cartaret, not anger. You look at life as a
comedy; nothing to you is serious, nothing
deep. The passing gratification of the
hour—that is all you care for. It amused
you to talk with me; and after I had been
in your mother's house three weeks, you
could not resist behaving as you did. So
much for my influence!"

"Pray don't refer to that again. To
prove your influence, let me tell you that
I've already taken the first step towards
working seriously. No one but you could
have got me to take it. As to my future,
if you only will, you shall direct it
entirely."

"I cannot. You see how unable I am
to direct myself. I know that life was not
given us to waste, as you do. You have
capital abilities, and, you say, perseverance.
I can only beg you to turn your life to
some better account than you have done."

"Will you help me, Mary?"

"My name is not Mary." A smile just
touched the corners of her mouth. "You
must forget that name. I left it behind
me at Beckworth. . . . A man should not
require 'help' to do what is right."

"He does, though. And there is a help
which only a woman can give him. Last
week I meant to have waited before I spoke
to you again. But all is changed now. I
can't wait. You have left Beckworth.
They tell me you refuse to return to your
home. What is the use of waiting? In
what I said to you last week I shall never
change. I shall be the same a year—two
years hence. Why wander about any
longer in this way, when there is a home
opening its arms to receive you?"

"It does not—it never will open its
arms," she replied. "Were I to marry you,
your mother's worst suspicions would be
confirmed. Say no more about it. It can
never be."

"Is this the only obstacle? . . . Tell me
one thing. Do you care in the least about
me?"

"There is no use in talking thus, Mr.
Cartaret. My pride is very great, and I
shall certainly never marry you."

"There is use. I implore you to answer
me this one question. Do you—or can you
ever—care for me?"

She turned almost angrily upon him, and
then her brown eyes filled with tears.

"You have no right to ask that question
when I tell you that I can never be your
wife."

"But, is my mother the only obstacle?
I would wait patiently, and work with
twice the energy, if you would tell me that,
and say that you trusted me."

"Why should I trust you? If you mean
by trust a belief in the lastingness of your
. . . your present state of feeling. No; I
should be sorry to trust in that. Perhaps I