CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GIRL SHE HAD BEEN As they sat amid the smell of rosin on that summer day, she told him, with a glance that said, "Now you will laugh at me," what had brought her into Caddam Wood.
"I came to rub something out." He reflected.

"A memory ?" "Yes." "Of me ?" She nodded.
"An unhappy memory ?" "Not to me," she replied, leaning on him.

"I have no memory of you I would rub out, no, not the unhappiest one, for it was you, and that makes it dear.

All memories, however sad, of loved ones become sweet, don't they, when we get far enough away from them ?" "But to whom, then, is this memory painful, Grizel ?" Again she cast that glance at him.

"To her," she whispered.
"'That little girl'!" "Yes; the child I used to be.