"No.... It is the first time I have listened. I can't think clearly; I scarcely know yet what I've said and done. What must you think?... But won't you be a little gentle with me--a little forbearing--in memory of what I have been to you--to him--so long?" "What do you wish me to think?" asked the girl in a hard voice. "My brother is of age; he will do what he pleases, I suppose. I--I don't know what to think; this has astounded me. I never dreamed such a thing possible----" "Nor I--until this spring. I know it is all wrong; this is making me more fearfully unhappy every minute I live. There is nothing but peril in it; the discrepancy in our ages makes it hazardous--his youth, his overwhelming fortune, my position and means--the world will surely, surely misinterpret, misunderstand--I think even you, his sister, may be led to credit--what, in your own heart, you must know to be utterly and cruelly untrue." "I don't know what to say or think," repeated Geraldine in a dull voice. "I can't realise it; I thought that our affection for you was so--so utterly different." She stared curiously at Kathleen, trying to reconcile what she had always known of her with what she now had to reckon with--strove to find some alteration in the familiar features, something that she had never before noticed, some new, unsuspected splendour of beauty and charm, some undetected and subtle allure. She saw only a wholesome, young, and lovely woman, fresh-skinned, slender, sweet, and graceful--the same companion she had always known and, as she remembered, unchanged in any way since the years of childhood, when Kathleen was twenty and she and her brother were ten. "I suppose," she said, "that if Scott is in love with you, there is only one thing to do." "There are several," said Kathleen in a low voice. "Will you not marry him?" "I don't know; I think not." "Are you not in love with him?" "Does that matter?" asked Kathleen steadily. "Scott's happiness is what is important." "But his happiness, apparently, depends on you." Kathleen flushed and looked at her curiously. "Dear, if I knew that was so, I would give myself to him. Neither you nor he have ever asked anything of me in vain. Even if I did not love him--as I do--and he needed me, I would give myself to him. You and he have been all there was in life for me. But I am afraid that I may not always be all that life holds for him. He is young; he has had no chance yet; he has had little experience with women. I think he ought to have his chance." She might have said the same thing of herself. A bride at her husband's death-bed, widowed before she had ever been a wife, what experience had she? All her life so far had been devoted to the girl who stood there confronting her, and to the brother. What did she know of men?--of whether she might be capable of loving some man more suitable? She had not given herself the chance. She never would, now.