"Of course--I haven't got my eyes shut. I do know all you mean--what marrying would be.--You think I couldn't expect to be helped to be good afterwards--doing it against my instincts. You think it would be so wrong, that it's worth turning life upside down to stop it--worth _what it will be like, not to do it_?" "So wrong," said Sylvester, kneeling beside her chair, "that I would rather see you die than do it." Another pause, then suddenly she stood up, and looked down into his face. "I will not do it," she said. "I said no one helped me. That's not true. You have done a tremendous thing for me. Thank you!" She held out her hands, and he put them to his lips; then, as he rose up, the inspiration that had brought him there seemed to die out, and left only trembling human passion in its stead. Nothing more was given him to say. He had really spoken in utter singleness of heart, altogether for her sake. Now, he felt that every word would be for his own. He murmured an echo of her thanks--looked at her for a moment with white face and shining eyes, and went, without one conventional word of apology, or of parting. When he got out into the street, he found that he could hardly stand. With an instinct of avoiding notice, he crossed over towards the railing of the square garden, and, finding the gate open, went in and managed to reach a bench close by, and sat there, till his head ceased to swim, and he could see and think clearly once more. He almost felt as if he were waking from a dream. How could he have faced her with such daring words, and how had she come to listen with so much patience? If he had saved her, he had done it at a cruel cost. He had not looked into her eyes, and touched her soul, without such growth of the passion within him as made his yearning a living pain, instead of a tender dream, or at least an endurable desire. His love had grown a thousandfold in that short quarter of an hour. And she had listened to him as if he had been a voice in the air! And to what a struggle had he persuaded her!--he who took his own life so easily. As Sylvester sat musing, he knew that his own words, or the love that had prompted them, had changed himself. He had no need to make any outward change in his life, but he knew, as he got up and walked slowly out of the garden and up the square, that his appeal to Amethyst had bound him to live it in a much more strenuous way. Amethyst, when he left her, stood still, while a crimson blush spread over face, neck, and arms--a deep glow of shame, the reaction from the utter absence of self-consciousness with which she had listened. She had never thought of Sylvester Riddell, while his eyes were shining into hers, and his voice thrilling into her ears; now she felt as if the eyes and the voice would never leave her. Three times he had been concerned in her fate.