with you." And
Elisabeth laughed a low laugh of perfect contentment.

"My darling, how I love you!" And Christopher also was content.

Then there was another silence, which Christopher broke at last by
saying--

"What is the matter, Betty?"

"There isn't anything the matter. How should there be?"

"Oh, yes, there is. Do you think I have studied your face for over
thirty years, my dear, without knowing every shade of difference in its
expression? Have I said anything to vex you?"

"No, no; how could I be vexed with you, Chris, when you are so good to
me? I am horrid enough, goodness knows, but not horrid enough for that."

"Then what is it? Tell me, dear, and see if I can't help?"

Elisabeth sighed. "I was thinking that there is really no going back,
however much we may pretend that there is. What we have done we have
done, and what we have left undone we have left undone; and there is no
blotting out the story of past years. We may write new stories, perhaps,
and try to write better ones, but the old ones are written beyond
altering, and must stand for ever. You have been divinely good to me,
Chris, and you never remind me even by a look how I hurt you and
misjudged you in the old days. But the fact remains that I did both; and
nothing can ever alter that."

"Silly little child, it's all over and past now! I've forgotten it, and
you must forget it too."

"I can't forget it; that's just the thing. I spoiled your life for the
best ten years of it; and now, though I would give everything that I
possess to restore those years to you, I can't restore them, or make
them up to you for the loss of them. That's what hurts so dreadfully."

Christopher looked at her with a great pity shining in his eyes. He
longed to save from all suffering the woman he loved; but he could not
save her from the irrevocableness of her own actions, strive as he
would; which was perhaps the best thing in the world for her, and for
all of us. Human love would gladly shield us from the consequences of
what we have done; but Divine Love knows better. What we have written,
we have written on the page of life; and neither our own tears, nor the
tears of those who love us better than we love ourselves, can blot it
out. For the first time in her easy, self-confident career, Elisabeth
Farringdon was brought face to face with this merciless truth; and she
trembled before it. It was just because Christopher was so ready to
forgive her, that she fo