“In all this, Muriel, I did, as far as she was concerned, only one wrong thing. When I saw her wooing Harrington, to show her that I could bear her injury, and to spoil her triumph, I was very attentive to you. I knew you would not mistake my assiduities for love, and I knew it would pique her. I ask your pardon. It was wrong. I did another and a greater wrong to Harrington, and I have sought him in vain to-day, to beg his forgiveness. I thought he loved Emily, and I was meanly envious and jealous of him—I was cold and reserved to him—I treated him with hauteur, which I saw he could not understand, and”— “How did Harrington act to you when you treated him with hauteur?” interrupted Muriel, quickly. “Like the man he is!” replied Wentworth, with impetuous fervor. “Like the nature too noble for this world! Great, grand heart, he shamed me even in my very treason to him with his unaltered kindness. He came to me frankly, unrepelled by my attitude to him, he came with a look, a word, a generous hand, and he conquered me. My envy and my jealousy arose again, and were wasted on him. I could not alienate him from me. He overlooked—he forgave all. Let me only see him again, let me ask his compassion and his pardon, and then let me go away, and hide my shame in Italy, for I am not worthy to live on the same soil with him—I am not worthy to be his friend.” Two bright tears flowed calmly down the face of Muriel, and her smile was sweet and proud for her lover. “Ah, Richard,” she said, gently, “had you treated Emily’s hauteur as Harrington treated yours, you, too, might have conquered her. It was not true love to answer her slights with coldness and silence.” “Perhaps, so, Muriel,” he answered with averted eyes, feeling her rebuke. “Perhaps I might. But no. It was not her nature. She meant to play upon me. No matter. Let it pass. And as for Witherlee, I hate him. Chiefly because I believe his insidious words set me against Harrington.” “Ah,” said Muriel, coolly, almost carelessly, “he set you against Harrington, did he?” “He did,” replied Wentworth. “And yet you loved Harrington,” she continued, “you loved him truly. But Witherlee could set you against him.” “He could,” faltered Wentworth. “I own it to my shame, but he could.” “And now, Richard,” she said, gravely, “answer me this. Would Emily be more to blame for having been set against you by Witherlee, than you were to blame for having been set against Harrington by him?” Wentworth looked at her, and colored. “No,” he faltered. “I could not blame her if her feeling against me arose from anything said by Witherlee. But what right have I to suppose that he has said anything against me?”