"I have not got a friend in the world," she said. "For God's sake, ask me no more questions to-night!" I rose and gave her the letter once more--with the postscript added, in her own words. We stood together by the table; we looked at each other in a momentary silence. "How can I thank you?" she murmured, softly. "Oh, sir, I will indeed be worthy of the confidence that you have shown in me!" Her eyes moistened; her variable color came and went; her dress heaved softly over the lovely outline of her bosom. I don't believe the man lives who could have resisted her at that moment. I lost all power of restraint; I caught her in my arms; I whispered, "I love you!" I kissed her passionately. For a moment she lay helpless and trembling on my breast; for a moment her fragrant lips softly returned the kiss. In an instant more it was over. She tore herself away with a shudder that shook her from head to foot, and threw the letter that I had given to her indignantly at my feet. "How dare you take advantage of me! How dare you touch me!" she said. "Take your letter back, sir; I refuse to receive it; I will never speak to you again. You don't know what you have done. You don't know how deeply you have wounded me. Oh!" she cried, throwing herself in despair on a sofa that stood near her, "shall I ever recover my self-respect? shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done to-night?" I implored her pardon; I assured her of my repentance and regret in words which did really come from my heart. The violence of her agitation more than distressed me--I was really alarmed by it. She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet with modest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that my repentance was accepted. "You will give me time for atonement?" I pleaded. "You will not lose all confidence in me? Let me see you again, if it is only to show that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon--at your own time; in the presence of another person, if you like." "I will write to you," she said. "To-morrow?" "To-morrow." I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor. "Make your goodness to me complete," I said. "Don't mortify me by refusing to take my letter." "I will take your letter," she answered, quietly. "Thank you for writing it. Leave me now, please. Good-night." I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left her, with my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which gradually resolved themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on: Love, that adored her more fervently than ever; and Hope, that set the prospect before me of seeing her again on the next day. CHAPTER XII. THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT.