I have broken John's heart, given up my home, estranged my friends; I have given up even Ned for love of him. But I'd have gone to the ends of the earth in gladness, I'd have given up for him all else in life--even my beauty; which is dearer than life. He'll come to me yet. Milly won't forgive, won't trust. She will not try to understand. Her only thought will be to hurt, to punish. She'll drive him to me again; but oh, the shame of taking him so, given to me by her severity! I won't believe he doesn't love me. What have I done to be so tortured? I didn't know it was cruelty not to break the bond with John earlier; I didn't know I gave him only a girl's passing fancy. It was when I met Ned that my heart awoke. I knew that he was Milly's betrothed and I had not thought of thus repaying Aunt's kindness. Her kindness! Kind as a stone. But it wasn't Ned's fault. He couldn't help himself. If he could have left me alone! If he could only have gone away! I suppose he tried to control himself, but his eyes glowed when he looked on me; and I, thinking I knew what love was, because I was affianced, did not see--did not know what the wild joy meant that his look woke in my heart. To keep faith with John and Milly, should I have shunned him? But there was nothing to warn me; he never spoke of love; I never thought of it. If he had spoken earlier, I might have known what to do. It might have been the danger signal. Why could he not have kept away? Why did he not speak a word of love until it was too late--until--ah, I was so happy! But he does love me. There's truer speech than that of words, and his lips--that kissed me, but said he did not love--have told two stories. I know which to believe! And Milly knows. She is too wise to contend with Me. I shall never know what brought Ned to the house--three weeks ago, but I haven't dared to write of it--I shall never know what happened before I saw him. I ran into the library with a song bubbling to my lips--for I was thinking of him--and the gladness of it was in my eyes when I found him there. He started and turned to me a face of confusion--yes, and of worship. He fumbled with a book on the table, and glanced toward the door as if he would have left me. I saw that, but I didn't think--there was no time to think, but I must have felt that a crisis had come that would decide our lives. All the fear, all the sweet shame that I had felt before him vanished. My heart beat wildly for happiness, but I was calm. At last we were alone together! I waited for him to speak. Slowly he turned as my questioning eyes had willed. His were black with passion and grief. A look of pain contracted his face, and he said, jerking the words out hoarsely:-- "I'm going away." The suddenness of it almost took my breath. I had expected different words. Indeed his eyes had shot another message; _they_ said that he would never leave me! Confused by lips that lied and eyes that confessed, I stammered:--