mself, and for his love! How like a man he
had looked, when he had asked her that question, "Will you dare to
tell me that you do not love me?" She had not dared; even though at
the moment she had longed to leave upon him the impression that it
was so. She had told him that she would lie to Mr Whittlestaff,--lie
on Mr Whittlestaff's own behalf. But such a lie as this she could
not tell to John Gordon. He had heard it in her voice and seen it in
her face. She knew it well, and was aware that it must be so.

"The pity of it," she too said to herself; "the pity of it!"
If he had but come a week sooner,--but a day sooner, before Mr
Whittlestaff had spoken out his mind,--no love-tale would ever have
run smoother. In that case she would have accepted John Gordon
without a moment's consideration. When he should have told her of
his distant home, of the roughness of his life, of the changes and
chances to which his career must be subject, she would have assured
him, with her heart full of joy, that she would accept it all and
think her lot so happy as to admit of no complaint. Mr Whittlestaff
would then have known the condition of her heart, before he had
himself spoken a word. And as the trouble would always have been in
his own bosom, there would, so to say, have been no trouble at all.
A man's sorrows of that kind do not commence, or at any rate are not
acutely felt, while the knowledge of the matter from which they grow
is confined altogether to his own bosom.

But she resolved, sitting there after John Gordon had left her, that
in the circumstances as they existed, it was her duty to bear what
sorrow there was to be borne. Poor John Gordon! He must bear some
sorrow too, if there should be cause to him for grief. There would be
loss of money, and loss of time, which would of themselves cause him
grief. Poor John Gordon! She did not blame him in that he had gone
away, and not said one word to draw from her some assurance of her
love. It was the nature of the man, which in itself was good and
noble. But in this case it had surely been unfortunate. With such
a passion at his heart, it was rash in him to have gone across the
world to the diamond-fields without speaking a word by which they two
might have held themselves as bound together. The pity of it!

But as circumstances had gone, honour and even honesty demanded that
Mr Whittlestaff should not be allowed to suffer. He at least had
been straightforward in his purpose, a