Coventry read this sentence by sentence, still looking up, nearly every sentence, at her to whom it was addressed. The letter pleaded on his knee, the pale face pleaded a few yards off; he sat between the two bleeding lovers, their sole barrier and bane. His heart began to fail him. The mountain of crime looked high. Now remorse stung him deeper than ever; jealousy spurred him harder than ever; a storm arose within his breast, a tempest of conflicting passion, as grand and wild as ever distracted the heart; as grand and wild as any poet has ever tried to describe, and, half succeeding, won immortal fame. “See what I can do?” whispered conscience. “With one bound I can give her the letter, and bring the color back to that cheek and joy to that heart. She will adore me for it, she will be my true and tender friend till death. She will weep upon my neck and bless me.” “Ay,” whispered jealousy, “and then she will marry Henry Little.” “And am I sure to succeed if I persist in crime? Deserve her hatred and contempt, and is it certain they will not both fall on me?” “The fault began with them. He supplanted me--she jilted me. I hate him--I love her. I can't give her up now; I have gone too far. What is intercepting a letter? I have been too near murder to stop at that.” “But her pale face! her pale face!” “Once married, supplant him as he has supplanted you. Away to Italy with her. Fresh scenes--constant love--the joys of wedlock! What will this Henry Little be to her then?--a dream.” “Eternal punishment; if it is not a fable, who has ever earned it better than I am earning it if I go on?” “It IS a fable; it must be. Philosophers always said so, and now even divines have given it up.” “Her pale face! her pale face! Never mind HIM, look at her. What sort of love is this that shows no pity? Oh, my poor girl, don't look so sad--so pale! What shall I do? Would to God I had never been born, to torture myself and her!” His good angel fought hard for him that day; fought and struggled and hoped, until the miserable man, torn this way and that, ended the struggle with a blasphemous yell by tearing the letter to atoms. That fatal act turned the scale. The next moment he wished he had not done it. But it was too late. He could not go to her with the fragments. She would see he had intercepted it purposely. Well, all the better. It was decided. He would not look at her face any more. He could not bear it. He rushed away from the bower and made for the seaside; but he soon returned another way, gained his own room, and there burnt the fragments of the letter to ashes. But, though he was impenitent, remorse was not subdued. He could not look Grace Carden in the face now. So he sent word he must go back to Hillsborough directly. He packed his bag and went down-stairs with it. On the last landing he met Grace Carden. She started a little. “What! going away?” “Yes, Miss Carden.” “No bad news, I hope?” said she, kindly.