Not for that had she driven from her as honest a man as had ever wished to mate with a woman.

He, George Vavasor, had never so held her hand since the day when they had parted, and now on this first occasion of her freedom she felt it again.

What did he think of her?
Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, as a flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another?
He read it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly.

"I can understand well," he said in a whisper, "what your present feelings are; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because I have been unable to repress my joy at what I cannot but regard as your release from a great misfortune." Then he went.
"My release!" she said, seating herself on the chair from which he had risen.

"My release from a misfortune! No;--but my fall from heaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and that I should have driven him away from me!" Her thoughts travelled off to the sweetness of that home at Nethercoats, to the excellence of that master who might have been hers; and then in an agony of despair she told herself that she had been an idiot and a fool, as well as a traitor.