"Indeed, maman, I have now told you the truth," said I, weeping. "I only read the first poem in the book, and then I would go no farther. And I did not lend it to Betty. She took it from the room when you called me to look at the china, and I never could get it again, though I asked her for it ever so many times. Oh, maman, do believe me!" "Vevette," said she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and looking me through and through as I knelt before her, "as you hope ever to meet your father again, tell me the truth. Have you any more of these books?" "No, maman, not one." "Have you ever had any of them since I forbade you reading them?" "Yes, maman, I had two or three that my Uncle Charles sent to the tower, but the day before we went to the Supper in the old grange I burned them, every one." "And you have not read the rest of this book?" "No, maman, only the first poem, in which there was no harm. Betty wanted to read on, but I would not. Oh, maman, do forgive me!" "I forgive you, my child, but you have grieved me to the heart," said my mother. "Go to your room, and pray for forgiveness and cleansing. Do not leave it this night. By and by, when I am rested, we will talk farther." I retired to my own room, feeling as miserable as any girl of my age ever felt in the world, mid that is saying much, for the capacities of such girls for misery are very great. It seemed to me as though I could never be happy again. In all my little difficulties with my aunt and Betty heretofore, Andrew had always been on my side; but now, he too had turned against me. How plainly I could see the look he gave me when he handed me that detestable book—a look full of anger and grief. I knew that he hated lying above all things. It was the only sin with which he seemed to have no patience. I had not told a lie in words, to be sure, but I had been guilty of deception, and that was enough for him. Now that I had lost him, or thought I had, I felt how dear he was to me. I had lost his respect, and I felt sure that all comfort was at an end between us, even though he should feel bound to fulfil his contract. One thing I made up my mind to—I would never be his wife if he showed the least unwillingness to marry me. And then I remembered how pleased he had been when I spoke of our living together on a desert island, and for the first time I burst into tears. I wept for a long time, thus lightening my heart a little, and then taking up my Bible I tried to read myself into some sort of quietness. I had just begun to breathe without sobbing when smile one knocked at the door. I opened it, with my heart throbbing at the thought that it might be Andrew, and there stood Betty, her eyes cast down with that affectation of meekness I knew so well, and carrying in her hands a tray laden with good things. "I have brought you some supper," said she, in her silver tones. "I thought perhaps you would not care to come down."