"`Tom Smith never was wrong,' I said one morning, as I sat alone, `and for a man like that, after my kindness, to take advantage of his position to win that girl's love from me, would be the act of the greatest scoun--' "`May I come in, Mr Burrows?' said the voice of the man of whom I was thinking. "`Yes, come in,' I said; and there we stood looking in one another's eyes. "`He's come to speak to me,' I said, and my heart grew very hard, but I concealed my feelings till he spoke, and then I was astounded. "`Mr Burrows,' he said, `I've come to say good-bye.' "`Good-bye!' I said. "`Yes, sir: good-bye. I have wakened from a dream of happiness to a sense of misery of which I cannot speak. Let me be brief, sir, and tell you that I shall never forget your kindness.' "`But you haven't finished the picture.' "`No, sir, and never shall,' he said bitterly. `Mr Burrows, I cannot stay. I--that is--I need not be ashamed to own it, I love your child with all my heart.' "`I knew it,' I said bitterly. "`And you think I have imposed on your kindness. No, sir, I have not, for I have never shown by word or look--' "`No, you scoundrel,' I said to myself, `but she knows it all the same.' "`And, sir, such a dream as mine could never be fulfilled--it is impossible.' "`Yes,' I said, in a cold hard voice, `it is impossible.' "`God bless you, sir! Good-bye.' "`You will not say good-bye to her?' I said harshly. "He shook his head, and as I stood there, hard, selfish, and jealous of him, I saw him go down the path, and breathed more freely, for he was gone. "Gone, but there was a shadow on my home. Cobweb said not a word, and expressed no surprise, never even referring to the picture, but went about the house slowly, drooping day after day, month after month, till the summer time came round again, and I knew that in my jealous selfishness I was breaking her young heart. "She never complained, and was as loving as ever; but my little Cobweb was broken, and the tears spangled it like dew whenever it was alone. "It was as nearly as could be a year after, that I, feeling ten years older, went to seek her one afternoon, and found her as I expected, in the little wood, standing dreamy and sad in her old position leaning upon the tree, listening to no bird-song now, but with a far-off longing look in her eyes, that swept away the last selfish thought from my heart. "I did not let her see me, but went straight up to Smith's, learned what I wanted, and a short time after I was in a handsome studio in Saint John's Wood, staring at the finished picture of my child--painted, of course, from memory--framed, against the wall. "As I stood there, I heard the door open, and turning stood face to face with Grantly. "We looked in each other's eyes for a few moments without speaking, and then in a trembling, broken voice, I said-- "`Grantly, I've come as a beggar now. My poor darling--God forgive me!--I've broken her heart!'