to me,
knowing that I will never reproach you with the past, nor expect more
than you can give me in the future. Vera, let me come back and claim you
in a year!"

How strange it was that the chance of marrying this man was perpetually
being presented to her. Never, perhaps, had the temptation been stronger
to her than it was now. He had divined her secret; there would be no
concealment between them; he would ask her for no love it was not in her
power to give; he would be content with her as she was, and he would love
her, and worship her, and surround her with everything that could make
her life pleasant and easy for her. Could a man offer more? Oh! why could
she not take him at his word, and give him the hope he craved for?

Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good and
evil--that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life's
race, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself so
strong--so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and wound
weaker woman--this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature,
wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer;
her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strong
character, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness.

To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all the
good things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love his
brother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill.

"I cannot do it; do not ask me," she said, distractedly. "Your goodness
to me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be."

"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered."

"I shall not alter."

"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me."

"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happy
enough; that is not why I cannot marry you."

"Why not, then?"

"_I dare not_," she said, in a low voice.

He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so bad
with you as that?"

She bent her head in silent assent.

"That is hard," he said, almost to himself, looking gloomily before him.
Presently he spoke again. "Thank you, Vera," he said, rather brokenly.
"You are a brave woman and a true one. Many would have taken my all,
and given me back only deception and falseness. But you are incapable of
that, and--and you fear your own strength; is that it?"

"Whilst he lives," she said, with a