Dorothy's hatred of humbug--which was not the less in existence then that they had not the ugly word to express the uglier thing--enabled her to fix her eyes on him as she spoke, and keep them fixed when she had ended. He turned pale--visibly pale through the shadowy night, nor attempted to conceal his confusion. It is strange how self-conviction will wait upon foreign judgment, as if often only the general conscience were powerful enough to wake the individual one. 'Or perhaps,' she continued, 'it was torn from thee by the waters that swept thee from the bridge, as thou didst venture with her yet again upon the forbidden ground.' He hung his head, and stood before her like a chidden child. 'Think'st thou,' she went on, 'that my lord would easily pardon such things?' 'Thou knewest it, and didst not betray me! Oh Dorothy!' murmured Scudamore. 'Thou art a very angel of light, Dorothy.' He seized her hand, and but for the possible eyes upon them, he would have flung himself at her feet. Dorothy, however, would not yet lay aside the part she had assumed as moral physician--surgeon rather. 'But notwithstanding all this, cousin Rowland, when trouble came upon the young lady, what comfort was there for her in thee? Never hadst thou loved her, although I doubt not thou didst vow and swear thereto an hundred times.' Rowland was silent. He began to fear her. 'Or what love thou hadst was of such sort that thou didst encourage in her that which was evil, and then let her go like a haggard hawk. Thou marvellest, forsooth, that I should be so careless of thy merits! Tell me, cousin, what is there in thee that I should love? Can there be love for that which is nowise lovely? Thou wilt doubtless say in thy heart, "She is but a girl, and how then should she judge concerning men and their ways?" But I appeal to thine own conscience, Rowland, when I ask thee--is this well? And if a maiden truly loved thee, it were all one. Thou wouldst but carry thyself the same to her--if not to-day, then to-morrow, or a year hence.' 'Not if she were good, Dorothy, like thee,' he murmured. 'Not if thou wert good, Rowland, like Him that made thee.' 'Wilt thou not teach me then to be good like thee, Dorothy?' 'Thou must teach thyself to be good like the Rowland thou knowest in thy better heart, when it is soft and lowly.' 'Wouldst thou then love me a little, Dorothy, if I vowed to be thy scholar, and study to be good? Give me some hope to help me in the hard task.' 'He that is good is good for goodness' sake, Rowland. Yet who can fail to love that which is good in king or knave?' 'Ah! but do not mock me, Dorothy: such is not the love I would have of thee.' 'It is all thou ever canst have of me, and methinks it is not like thou wilt ever have it, for verily thou art of nature so light that any wind may blow thee into the Dead Sea.' From a saint it was enough to anger any sinner.