She had been warned of this—too late, too late for her own peace—and the warning had come true. How delicately, how gently, yet how clearly, had Witherlee warned her to beware of Wentworth’s insidious honey tongue. Kind friend, wise friend, whom they think treacherous and subtle, you were loyal and true to me. But your warning came too late, for I had already given my heart, my life, my peace to him. Had you but spoken earlier, had you but warned me in time—but now, too late, too late, cast off, betrayed, undone! a handsome gallant’s sport, his theme for mockery and insult—come Death, best other friend, best friend of all to me, best friend and only friend to me! take me from life to God, for all that made existence sweet is ended! So ran the silent passion of her thought, with silent-flowing tears. The solemn night was still around her vigil, and the hush of the chamber was like the hush of the tomb. They sleep, she thought, they sleep in peace, while I watch here uncomforted. She sleeps, my noble-hearted Muriel—she who, misled by my proud, spleenful folly, thinks I have given my heart to Harrington. And he! oh, how can he forgive me when I tell him—but he will—that noble nature cannot scorn me; he will understand and pity and pardon. Let me only tell him frankly—let me atone for all my wrong by humbling myself before him; let me crave his compassion and forgiveness, and so be fitter to go from earth to my Savior’s rest. To-morrow I will depart from hence, and before I go I will see Harrington and Muriel, and make my peace with them. I who was jealous of her, even her, my sweet, deep-hearted Muriel; I will own it, I will ask her forgiveness. Punished, justly punished, for my wrong to them both, let me be forgiven by them, and then let me go away to die.