She gave me her hand, without turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady,--'Can you forgive me ?' It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied,--'I hardly can.

You should have told me this before.

It shows a want of confidence--' 'Oh, no,' cried she, eagerly interrupting me; 'it was not that.

It was no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it.

But you forgive me ?--I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error,--and must reap them to the end.' Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in which this was spoken.