“thou art fallen. You, once high in my esteem, are hurled down; you, once intimate in my friendship, are cast out. Go!”

‘I went not. I had heard her voice tremble—seen her lip quiver; I knew another storm of tears would fall, and then, I believed, some calm and some sunshine must come, and I would wait for it.

‘As fast, but more quietly than before, the warm rain streamed down. There was another sound in her weeping—a softer, more regretful sound. While I watched, her eyes lifted to me a gaze more reproachful than haughty, more mournful than incensed.

‘ “Oh, Moore!” said she; it was worse than “Et tu, Brute!”

‘I relieved myself by what should have been a sigh, but it became a groan. A sense of Cain-like desolation made my breast ache.

‘ “There has been error in what I have done,” I said, “and it has won me bitter wages, which I will go and spend far from her who gave them.”

‘I took my hat. All the time, I could not have borne to depart so, and I believed she would not let me. Nor would she but for the mortal pang I had given her pride, that cowed her compassion, and kept her silent.

‘I was obliged to turn back of my own accord when I reached the door, to approach her and to say, “Forgive me.”

‘ “I could, if there was not myself to forgive, too,” was her reply; “but to mislead a sagacious man so far I must have done wrong.”

‘I broke out suddenly with some declamation I do not remember; I know that it was sincere, and that my wish and aim were to absolve her to herself—in fact, in her case, self-accusation was a chimera.

‘At last she extended her hand. For the first time I wished to take her in my arms and kiss her. I did kiss her hand many times.

‘ “Some day we shall be friends again,” she said, “when you have had time to read my actions and motives in a true light, and not so horribly to misinterpret them. Time may give you the right key to all, then perhaps you will comprehend me, and then we shall be reconciled.”

‘Farewell drops rolled slow down her cheeks; she wiped them away.

‘ “I am sorry for what has happened—deeply sorry,” she sobbed.

‘So was I, God knows! Thus were we severed.’

‘A queer tale,’ commented Mr. Yorke.

‘I’ll do it no more,’ vowed his companion—‘never more will I mention marriage to a woman unless I feel love. Henceforth Credit and Commerce may take care of themselves. Bankruptcy may come when it lists. I have done with slavish fear of disaster. I mean to work diligently, wait patiently, bear steadily. Let the worst come. I will take an axe and an emigrant’s berth, and go out with Louis to the West; he and I have settled it. No woman shall ever again look at me as Miss Keeldar looked—ever again feel towards me as Miss Keeldar felt; in no woman’s presence will I ever again stand at once such a fool and such a knave—such a brute and such a puppy.’

‘Tut!’ said the imperturbable Yorke, ‘you make too much of it; but still, I say, I am capped: firstly, that she did not love you; and secondly, that you did not love her. You are both young; you are both handsome; you