"I will speak the truth," said Betty, giving him her other hand. "You love me--and I love you, and we are going to be miserable. Yes--I will speak. Dear, I can't do it. Not even for you. I used to think I thought I could. I was bitter. I think I wanted to be revenged on life and God and everything. I thought I didn't believe in God, but I wanted to spite Him all the same. But when you came--after that day in the porch--when you came and talked to me about all the good and beautiful things--why, then I knew that I really did believe in them, and I began to love you because you had believed them all the time, and because.... And I didn't try to make you love me--after that day in the porch--at least, not very much--oh, I do want to speak the truth! I used to try so _not_ to try. I--I did want you to love me, though; I didn't want you to love anyone else. I wanted you to love me just enough to make you happy, and not enough to make you miserable. And so long as you didn't know you loved me it was all right: and when you caught me last night I knew that you would know, and it would be all over. You made up your mind to teach me that there are better things in the world than love--truth and honour and--and--things like that. And you've taught it me. It was a duel, and you've won." "And you meant to teach me that love is stronger than anything in the world. And you have won too." "Yes," she said, "we've both won. That's the worst of it--or the best." "What is to become of us?" he said. "Oh, my dear--what are we to do? Do you forgive me? If you are right, I must be wrong--but I can't see anything now except that I want you so." "I'm glad you loved me enough to be silly," she said; "but, oh, my dear, how glad I am that I love you too much to let you." "But what are we to do?" "Do? Nothing. Don't you see we've taught each other everything we know. We've given each other everything we can give. Isn't it good to love like this--even if this has to be all?" "It's all very difficult," he said; "but everything shall be as you choose, only somehow I think it's worse for me than for you. I loved you before--and now I adore you. I seem to have made a saint of you--but you've made me a man." * * * * * One wishes with all one's heart that that lunatic would die. The situation is, one would say--impossible. Yet the lovers do not find it so. They work together, and parish scandal has almost ceased to patter about their names. There is a subtle pleasure for both in the ceremonious courtesy with which ever since that day they treat each other. It contrasts so splendidly with the living flame upon each heart-altar. So far the mutual passion has improved the character of each. All the same, one wishes that the lunatic would die--for she is not so much of a saint as he thinks her, and he is more of a man than she knows. CINDERELLA