y that her decision has made a difference--a
hideous, irreparable difference,--that the man can never be the same
again,--that she has wrecked a life with a word! Oh, there ought to be
some way! The man ought not to ask unless he is sure of the reply! It's
too much responsibility to force upon the girl!

"So with Spencer Cavendish," she went on after a moment. "In spite of
all--in spite of all, John!--I can't forget that he loved me. I think a
woman never forgets that."

"Until the man marries another woman!"

"Ah," said Natalie, with a faint smile, "then least of all, John! And
besides, Spencer never married. He knew I loved you, long before you
did! I felt that it was due to him that he should know; he was my
oldest and best friend then, and so I told him! And then he went out of
my life--out of his own--into darkness. I can't forget it! I can't
forget that I broke up your friendship"--

"Dearest!"

"I did, John! It wasn't my fault, perhaps, nor any one's, for that
matter, but I did, just the same. Besides, it wasn't only the question
of your friendship. What hurt me most was the wilful wreck of his life.
And yet, how could I have known what was going to happen? What could I
do when it did happen? He was beyond my reach. He didn't even answer the
letter I wrote, asking him to come and see me. I thought, if he cared
for me, I could save him. But it was just as he had said,--he must have
everything, or he would have nothing at all. And so he went wrong--oh,
so terribly, terribly wrong!--he who might have been anything, if it
hadn't been for me. I can never forget it--never! I can never forget the
pity of it, the tragedy of its awful publicity, the newspapers, the
scandal, people's sneers, his mother dying of a broken heart--_and I did
it_! Think of it! Think of a man like Spencer Cavendish in the police
courts, not once, but a dozen times. Think of what Justice Meyer called
him at last, and what was printed in the papers,--'a common drunk!' Oh,
John!"

"Natalie, Natalie!" broke in the Lieutenant-Governor. "Why should you
think of such things, brood over them, above all, blame them on
yourself? How could it possibly have been your fault? how could you
possibly have helped it? He was a reckless, hot-headed chap--brilliant,
of course, but a slave to his impulses and his nerves. If Lochinvars
could act with impunity nowadays, he'd have ridden up to your door on a
black horse, killed Thomas, and carried you off across