e to talk of this to you," she said
slowly. "You will think me over-bold--unmannerly, perhaps. But I
can't help that. I should never have thought of your caring for
me--you will at least do me the justice to believe that."

"Lydia!" he interrupted, poignantly distressed by her evident
timidity--her exquisite hesitation, "let me speak! I understand--I
know--"

She forbade him with a gesture, at once pleading and peremptory.

"No," she said. "No! I began this, I must go on to the end. What you
ought to understand is this: I am not like other women. I want only
friendship from every one. I shall never ask more. I can never accept
more--from any one. I want you to know this--now."

"But I--do you realize--"

"I want your friendship," she went on, facing him with a sort of
desperate courage; "but more than any kindness you can offer me, Mr.
Elliot, I want the friendship of Fanny Dodge, of Ellen Dix--of all
good women. I need it! Now you know why I showed you the picture. If
you will not give it to her, I shall. I want her--I want every
one--to understand that I shall never come between her and the
slightest hope she may have cherished before my coming to Brookville.
All I ask is--leave to live here quietly--and be friendly, as
opportunity offers."

Her words, her tone were not to be mistaken. But even the sanest and
wisest of men has never thus easily surrendered the jealously guarded
stronghold of sex. Wesley Elliot's youthful ideas of women were
totally at variance with the disconcerting conviction which strove to
invade his mind. He had experienced not the slightest difficulty, up
to the present moment, in classifying them, neatly and logically; but
there was no space in his mental files for a woman such as Lydia Orr
was representing herself to be. It was inconceivable, on the face of
it! All women demanded admiration, courtship, love. They always had;
they always would. The literature of the ages attested it. He had
been too precipitate--too hasty. He must give her time to recover
from the shock she must have experienced from hearing the spiteful
gossip about himself and Fanny Dodge. On the whole, he admired her
courage. What she had said could not be attributed to the mere
promptings of vulgar sex-jealousy. Very likely Fanny had been
disagreeable and haughty in her manner. He believed her capable of
it. He sympathized with Fanny; with the curious mental aptitude of a
sensitive nature, he still loved Fanny. It ha