"No," she answered. "It was brave of you to refrain. It must be a great deal easier for a gentleman to resent an insult than to endure it. My cousin said as much to me yesterday evening. He said he had always known that you were brave, but that he had not expected to find in you the moral courage to bear his words with equanimity. He also said he was glad he did not have to meet you in a duel, because you were so greatly his superior with the sword. It was brave of you not to challenge him. Perhaps it was on my account you desisted." "No, it was because I respected him far more than any man I have ever known, and because he told the truth. Do not speak of my bravery in the same breath with his. He was as cool as though he were telling an amusing story." "He certainly was," returned Frances, laughing softly and closing with a sigh. "But he had truth on his side, and truth is a great stimulant to courage," remarked Hamilton. Frances sighed again, diligently studying her hands resting listlessly on her lap. "Yes, he told the truth," continued Hamilton. "That is why I sent the letter to you early this morning, asking you to meet me for the last time--the last time, Frances. This is not a mere promise to lure you on, but the truth, for I have learned my lesson from Baron Ned, and with God's help, I, too, shall hereafter protect you from all evil, including myself. It is not the Hamilton of yesterday who is speaking to you, but a new man, born again in the fierce light your cousin threw upon me. I feared you might resent his effort to protect you, and I wanted to tell you again that he spoke nothing but the truth, and that he did his duty where another man less brave would have failed." Frances sighed audibly, and I was sure her eyes were filled with tears. "Hereafter I shall be as honest with you and as brave for your welfare as Baron Ned was yesterday," said Hamilton, his voice choking with emotion. "I see you now for the last time, unless--" He stopped speaking for a moment and, taking her hand, continued hesitatingly, "Does the thought pain you?" "I suppose I should say no," answered the girl, withdrawing her hand. "But you see, I, too, have a little moral courage, and, in the face of an inevitable future, do not fear to say, yes, the greatest pain I have ever known." He moved toward her with evident intent to embrace her, but she rose, saying calmly, almost coldly:-- "Master Hamilton, do you wish me to leave you?" In Hamilton's place, I should have preferred trying to embrace St. George's dragon rather than the girl standing before him. Hamilton bowed with humility and said: "Please do not fear. Sit down and hear me out. I shall not detain you long." She sat down, seeming to feel that notwithstanding her recent admission, there was no danger of further unseemly demonstration on Hamilton's part.