Had she been unmaidenly?
Had she been too forward with her heart?
Had it been extracted from her, as women's hearts are extracted, by efforts on the man's part; or had she simply chucked it away from her to the first comer?
Then she remembered certain scenes at the deanery, words that had been spoken, looks that had been turned upon her, a pressure of the hand late at night, a little whisper, a ribbon that had been begged, a flower that had been given;--and once, once--; then there came a burning blush upon her cheek that there should have been so much, and yet so little that was of avail.

She had no right to say to any one that the man was her lover.

She had no right to assure herself that he was her lover.

But she knew that some wrong was done her in that he was not her lover.
Of the importance of her own self as a living thing with a heart to suffer and a soul to endure, she thought enough.

She believed in herself, thinking of herself, that should it ever be her lot to be a man's wife, she would be to him a true, loving friend and companion, living in his joys, and fighting, if it were necessary, down to the stumps of her nails in his interests.