But, at this moment, she could not bring herself to look at that aspect of the affair.

Her mind would revert to all those choicest moments in her early years in which she had been happy with Arthur Fletcher; in which she had first learned to love him, and had then taught herself to understand by some confused and perplexed lesson that she did not love him as men and women love.
But why should she not so have loved him?
Would she not have done so could she then have understood how true and firm he was?
And then, independently of herself, throwing herself aside for the time as she was bound to do when thinking of one so good to her as Arthur Fletcher, she found that no personal joy could drown the grief which she shared with him.

For a moment the idea of a comparison between the two men forced itself upon her,--but she drove it from her as she hurried back to the house..