'I cannot trust myself, Diana. What right have I to know things which God has kept secret from other men? might it not be a kind of profanation? I am not like you--I have not lived so spotless and serene a life. You are worthy of this revelation: no one besides you is worthy of it. Even your father dares not share it with you any longer--in spite of his strength, he distrusts his strength for that. What would you think of me, if I were to look, and yet not see what you see, or feel what you feel? The risk is too great.' It seemed to me a long while before Diana answered; and first, she sighed. 'You may be right: I have not thought of it--I do not wish to think of it,' she said. 'And perhaps all my life has been wrong--a mistake! Why should what is wrong for you be right for me?' 'There is no parallel between us, Diana.' 'I am a woman and you are a man; we were both born on the earth, to live here and to die here. Only I have lived alone in this tower, and no one has taught me what was good or bad. I tried to find the good in my own way: my father left me to myself; you are the only other man I have ever talked with. I had no companions in the world, so I tried to find one somewhere else. But perhaps it was only something within myself that I found, after all. I cannot tell: I hoped you might be able to help me, cousin.' 'You misunderstand me,' I replied, startled and agitated by the new tone in which she spoke, so different from her usual quiet and cool reserve. 'I would not presume to criticise you, Diana: you seem to me so good and noble that--that sometimes, for my own sake, I almost wish you were less so! It was of my own weaknesses and imperfections that I was thinking.' 'If all the world were no more imperfect than you, I think I should love the world,' said Diana, simply. I felt the blood come to my face; but I feared so much to shock her by speaking too soon what was in my heart to speak, that I kept silence. Presently she said-- 'You will not look, then?' There was in her voice an accent of such wistful appeal as made my refusal seem cowardly and selfish. 'If you ask it--if you wish it--I will!' There was a moment's pause. 'I do not wish it!' she exclaimed, standing erect and lifting her head with a gesture of decision. 'If I have done wrong, I must teach myself to feel it--will you leave me now, cousin? I need to be alone a little, I think.' I went to the door; she followed me, and held out her hand. 'Good night, Will,' she said: 'pleasant dreams! we shall see each other again in the morning.' VII.