My reader must remember that Lucy was not one of those clear-brained as well as large-hearted women who see the _rights_ of a thing at once. Many of the best women may be terribly puzzled, especially when an opportunity of self-sacrifice occurs. They are always ready to think that the most painful way is the right one. This indicates a noble disposition. And the most painful way _may_ be the right one; but it is not the right one _because_ it is the most painful. It is the right way because it is the right way, whether it be painful or delightful; and the notion of self-sacrifice may be rooted in spiritual pride. Whether it be so or not, the fact that the wrong way is the least self-indulgent, is the most painful, will not prevent it from bringing with it all the consequences that belong to it: wrong-doing cannot set things right, however noble the motive may be. Of course the personal condemnation and the individual degradation are infinitely less than if the easiest and pleasantest way is chosen only because it is the easiest and pleasantest. But God will not make of law a child's toy, to indulge the vagaries of his best children. When Lucy had finished setting forth her case, which the trembling of her voice, and the swelling of her tears, hardly interrupted, Mr. Fuller said: "Now you must allow me, Miss Burton, to ask you one or two plain questions." "Certainly, sir. Ask me whatever you please. I will answer honestly." "That I have no doubt about. Do you love this man to whom you say you are obliged?" "Indeed I do not. I hope I am grateful to him, and I would do anything in return, except--" "I understand you. It seems to me, though this kind of thing involves many questions too delicate to be easily talked about, that, whatever he may desire at the time, it is doing any man a grievous wrong to marry him without loving him. Blinded by his love, he may desire it none the less even if you tell him that you do not love him; but the kindest thing, even to him, is to refuse. This is what seems to me the truth." While Mr. Fuller spoke, Lucy heaved such a deep sigh of relief, that if any corroboration of what she represented as the state of her feelings had been necessary, Mr. Fuller had it. After a little pause, he went on: "Now, one question more: Do you love the other still?" "I do," said Lucy, bursting at last into a passion of tears. "But, perhaps," she sobbed, "I ought to give him up altogether. I am afraid he has not behaved well at all." "To you?" "I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking about myself just then." "Has he let you understand that he has forsaken you?" "No, no. He hasn't said a word. Only I haven't seen him for so long."