. You, you and no other, are the woman that I love; and,
beside you, Ethel is nothing to me at all."

"You might at least remember your duty to her," said Lesley, with
severity. "You have won her heart, and you are about to vow to make her
happy. I cannot understand how you can be so false to her."

"If I am false to her," said Oliver, pleadingly, "I am true to the
dictates of my own heart. Hear me, Lesley--pity me! I have promised to
marry a woman whom I do not love. I acknowledge it frankly. I shall
never make her happy--strive as I may, her nature will never assimilate
with mine. She will go through life a disappointed woman; while, if I
set her free, she will find some man whom she loves and will be happy
with him. You may as well confess that this is true. You may as well
acknowledge that her nature is too light, too trivial to be rent asunder
by any falsity of mine. Ethel will never break her heart; but you might
break yours, Lesley--and I--I also--have a heart to break."

Lesley smiled scornfully. "Yours will not break very easily," she said,
"and I can answer for mine."

"You are strong," he said, using the formula by which men know how to
soften women's hearts, "stronger than I am. Be merciful, Lesley! I am
very weak, I know; but weakness means suffering. Can you not pity me,
when you think that my weakness and my suffering come from love of you?"

"I am very sorry, Mr. Trent, but I really cannot help it. It is your own
fault--not mine," said Lesley, a little hotly. "I never thought of such
a thing."

"No, you were as innocent and as good as you always are," he broke in,
"and you did not know what you were doing when you led me on with those
sweet looks and sweet words of yours. I can believe that. But you did
the mischief, Lesley, without meaning it; and you must not refuse to
make amends. You made me think you loved me."

"Oh, no, no," said Lesley, her face aflame with outraged modesty. "I
never made you think so! You were mistaken--that is all!"

"You made me think you loved me," Oliver repeated, doggedly, "and you
owe me amends. To say the very least, you have given me great pain: you
have made me the most miserable of men, and wrecked all chance of
happiness between Ethel and myself--have you no heart that you can
refuse to repair a little of the harm that you have done? You are a
cruel woman--I could almost say a wicked woman: hard, false, and
cowardly; and I wish my words could blight your life a