ate of life to which it had pleased God to call her.
There would be a sacrifice--a sacrifice of two--but still it was
justice.

Had she not consented to take everything from Mr Whittlestaff; her
bread, her meat, her raiment, the shelter under which she lived, and
the position in the world which she now enjoyed? Had the man come but
a day earlier, it would all have been well. She would have told her
love before Mr Whittlestaff had spoken of his wants. Circumstances
had been arranged differently, and she must bear it. But she knew
that it would be better for her that she should see John Gordon
no more. Had he started at once to London and gone thence to the
diamond-fields without seeing her again there would be a feeling that
she had become the creature of stern necessity; there would have been
no hope for her,--as also no fear. Had he started a second time for
South Africa, she would have looked upon his further return with
any reference to her own wants as a thing impossible. But now how
would it be with her? Mr Whittlestaff had told her with a stern
indifference that she must again meet this man, sit at the table with
him as an old friend, and be again subject to his influence. "It will
be better that you and he should meet," he had said, "without the
necessity of making a scene." How could she assure him that there
would be no scene?

Then she thought that she would have recourse to that ordinary
feminine excuse, a headache; but were she to do so she would own the
whole truth to her master; she would have declared that she so loved
the man that she could not endure to be in his presence. She must
now let the matter pass as he had intended. She must go to Mr Hall's
house, and there encounter him she loved with what show of coldness
she might be able to assume.

But the worst of it all lay in this,--that she could not but think
that he had been induced to remain in the neighbourhood in order that
he might again try to gain his point. She had told herself again
and again that it was impossible, that she must decide as she had
decided, and that Mr Whittlestaff had decided so also. He had used
what eloquence was within his reach, and it had been all in vain.
He could now appeal only to herself, and to such appeal there could
be but one answer. And how was such appeal to be made in Mr Hall's
drawing-room? Surely John Gordon had been foolish in remaining in the
neighbourhood. Nothing but trouble could come of it.

"So