“If you are quite sure that you wish to tell it to me. You may be assured that you will find in me a sympathetic listener. Is there any one of us that can say in truth that his heart or hers has not some time been guilty of foolishness?” “The worst of it is that what seems foolishness to-day had the semblance of wisdom yesterday. And who can say that to-morrow we may not go back to our former judgment?” “That is the knowledge that has come to you from experience.” “It has come to me as the conclusion of my story--such as it is.” “'Tis sad to think that our best teacher must ever be experience, my child. But if you have learned your lesson you should be accounted fortunate. There are many to whom experience comes only to be neglected as a teacher.” “I have had experience--a little--and all that it has taught to me is to doubt. A year ago I thought that I loved a man. To-day I do not know whether I love him or not--that is all my poor story, sir.” She had not spoken fluently, but faltering--with many pauses--a little wistfully, and with her eyes on the ground. He stopped suddenly in his walk. He, too, had his eyes upon the ground. He had not at once appreciated the meaning of her words, but after a pause it came upon him: he understood what her words meant to him. She loved another man. How could he ever have been so foolish as to take it for granted that such a girl as this was free? That was the first thought which came to him. Had he not heard how every youth for miles round was in love with Nelly Polwhele? Had he not seen how one man had almost lost his senses through love of her? And yet he had been considering the question of asking her to marry him, assuming from the very first that she must be free! He had been considering the matter from his own standpoint, asking himself if it would not be well to be assured of his own love for her before telling her that he loved her; and he came to the conclusion that he should not use any undue haste in saying the words which, he hoped, would link their lives together. He had never entertained a suspicion that he might be too late in making his appeal to her. It was now a shock to him to learn, as he had just done, that he was too late. It took him some time to recover himself. “I ask your pardon,” he said. “I pray you to tell to me again what you have just said.” “I am well-nigh ashamed to say it, sir,” she murmured. “I am afraid that you may not think well of me. You may think that there is some truth in the reports that have gone abroad concerning me.” “Reports? I have heard no reports. I thought of you as I found you, and all that I thought was good. I think nothing of you now that is not good. Ah, child, you do not know what direction my thoughts of you have taken! Alas! alas!”