"I suppose you know nothing of the school she sent him to?" Miss Bracy went on--"King William's, or whatever it is." "King Edward's," Mr. Frank corrected. "Yes, I made inquiries about it at the time--ten years ago. People speak well of it. Not a public school, of course--at least, not quite; the line isn't so easy to draw nowadays--but it turns out gentlemen." In her heart Miss Bracy thought him too hopeful; but she said, "He wrote a becoming letter--his hand, by the way, curiously suggests yours; it was quite a nice letter, and agreeably surprised me. I shouldn't wonder if his headmaster had helped him with it and cut out the boyish heroics; for of course _she_ must have taught him to hate us." "My dear Laura, why in the world--" began Mr. Frank testily. "Oh, she had spirit!"--the encounter of long ago rose up in Miss Bracy's memory, and she nodded her head with conviction. "Like most of the quiet ones, she had spirit. You don't suppose, I imagine, that she forgave?" "No." Mr. Frank came to a halt and dug with his heel at a daisy root in the turf. Then using his heel as a pivot he swung himself round in an awkward circle. The action was ludicrous almost, but he faced his cousin again with serious eyes. "But it is not her heart that I doubt," he added gently. Miss Bracy stared up at him, "My dear Frank, do you mean to tell me that you _regret_?" Yes; as a fact he did regret, and knew that he would never cease to regret. He was not a man to nurse malice even for a wrong done to him, still less to live carelessly conscious of having wronged another. He was weak, but incurably just. And more; though self entered last into his regret, he knew perfectly well that the wrong had wrecked him too. His was a career _manque_: he had failed as a man, and it had broken his nerve as an artist. He was a dabbler now, with--as Heine said of de Musset--a fine future _behind him_, and none but an artist can tell the bitterness of that self-knowledge. Had he kept his faith with Bassett in spirit as in letter, he might have failed just as decidedly; her daily companionship might have coarsened his inspiration, soured him, driven him to work cheaply, recklessly; but at least he could have accused fate, circumstance, a boyish error, whereas now he and his own manhood shared the defeat and the responsibility. Yes, he regretted; but it would never do to let Laura know his regret. That would be to play the double traitor. She had saved him (she believed) from himself; with utterly wrong-headed loyalty she had devoted her life to this. The other debt was irredeemable, but this at any rate could be paid. He evaded her question. "My dear," he said, "what was done has been atoned for by her, and is being atoned for by--by us. Let us think of her without bitterness." Miss Bracy shook her head "I am a poor sort of Christian," she confessed; "and if she has taught this boy to hate us--"