earned woman, a learned philosophical
writer and translator of exegetical works from the German. Like Nora,
she came from the middle classes, and, like Nora, she transgressed, how
often he did not know, but with another woman's husband certainly. A
critical writer and exponent of serious literature. Taste for learned
studies did not preclude abstinence from those sins which in his
ignorance of life he had associated with worldlings! Of course, St.
Augustine was such a one. But is a man's truth also woman's truth?
Apparently it is, and if he could believe the book he had been reading,
Nora might very well be Poole's mistress. Therewith the question came up
again, demanding answer: Why did she write declining any correspondence
with him, and three weeks afterwards write another letter inveigling
him, tempting him, bringing him to this last pitch of unhappiness? Was
the letter he returned to her prompted by Mr. Poole and by a spirit of
revenge? Three days after he took up his pen and added this paragraph to
his unfinished letter:

'I laid aside my pen, fearing I should ask what are your relations with
Mr. Poole. I have tried to keep myself from putting this question to
you, but the torture of doubt overcomes me, and even if you should never
write to me again, I must ask it. Remember that I am responsible to God
for the life you lead. Had it not been for me, you would never have
known Poole. You must grant to every man his point of view, and, as a
Christian, I cannot put my responsibility out of mind. If you lose your
soul, I am responsible for it. Should you write that your relations with
Mr. Poole are not innocent, I shall not be relieved of my
responsibility, but it will be a relief to me to know the truth. I shall
pray for you, and you will repent your sins if you are living in sin.
Forgive me the question I am putting to you. I have no right to do so
whatever. Whatever right I had over you when you were in my parish has
passed from me. I exceeded that right, but that is the old story. Maybe
I am repeating my very fault again. It is not unlikely, for what do we
do all through our lives but to repeat ourselves? You have forgiven me,
and, having forgiven me once, maybe you will forgive me again. However
this may be, do not delay writing, for every day will be an agony till I
hear from you. At the end of an autumn day, when the dusk is sinking
into the room, one lacks courage to live. Religion seems to desert one,
and I