wo women.
If he had ever heard of any other man in a like condition, he would
have called that man a scoundrel, and yet he did not deem himself a
scoundrel.

The facts in the case were easy enough to understand. For the first
time in his life he had looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him,
and he had discovered to his utter surprise that he loved her. There
had been no plan; no prudent outlook into her nature and feelings;
no cautious insight into his own. He had taken part in a most
unpremeditated act of pure and simple love; and that it was real and
pure love on each side, he no more doubted than he doubted that he
lived. And yet, had he been an impostor when, on that hill over there,
he told Roberta March he loved her? No, he had been honest, he had
loved her; and, since the time that he had been roused to action by
the discovery of Junius Keswick's intentions to renew his suit, it had
been a love full of a rare and alluring beauty. But its charm, its
fascination, its very existence, had disappeared in the first flash of
his knowledge that Annie Peyton loved him. Had his love for Roberta
been a perfect one, had he been sure that she returned it, then it
could not have been overthrown; but it had gone, and a love, complete
and perfect, stood in its place. He had seen that he was loved, and he
loved. That was all, but it would stand forever.

This was the state of the case, and now Lawrence set himself to
discover if, in all ways, he had acted truly and honestly. He had been
accepted by Miss March, but what sort of acceptance was it? Should he,
as a man true to himself, accept such an acceptance? What was he to
think of a woman who, very angry as he had been informed, had sent him
a message, which meant everything in the world to him, if it meant
anything, and had then dashed away without allowing him a chance to
speak to her, or even giving him a nod of farewell. The last thing she
had really said to him in this connection were those cruel words on
Pine Top Hill, with which she had asked him to choose a spot in which
to be rejected. Could he consider himself engaged? Would a woman who
cared for him act towards him in such a manner? After all, was that
acceptance anything more than the result of pique? And could he not,
quite as justly, accept the rejection which she had professed herself
anxious to give him.

A short time before, Lawrence had done his best to explain to his
advantage these peculiarities of h