h I was," quoth I at last.

"Because of late you have forgot to grieve for yourself and past wrong
and sorrows, Martin. Mayhap you shall one day forget them quite."

"Never!" quoth I.

"Yet so do I hope, Martin, with all my heart," says she and with a
great sigh.

"Why then, fain would I forget an I might, but 'tis beyond me. The
agony of the rowing-bench, the shame of stripes--the blood and
bestiality of it all--these I may never forget."

"Why then, Martin--dear Martin," says she, all suddenly slipping from
her stool to kneel before me and reach out her two hands. "I do pray
our Heavenly Father, here and now before you, that you, remembering all
this agony and shame, may make of it a crown of glory ennobling your
manhood--that you, forgetting nothing, may yet put vengeance from you
now and for ever and strive to forget--to forgive, Martin, and win
thereby your manhood and a happiness undreamed--" here she stopped, her
bosom heaving, her eyes all tender pleading; and I (O deaf and purblind
fool!) hearing, heard not and seeing, saw nought but the witching
beauty of her; and now, having her hands in mine, beholding her so
near, I loosed her hands and turned away lest I should crush her to me.

"'Tis impossible!" I muttered. "I am a man and no angel--'tis
impossible!" Hereupon she rose and stood some while looking down into
the fire and never a word; suddenly she turned as to leave me, then,
sitting on her stool, drew out her hairpins and shook down her shining
hair that showed bronze-red where the light caught it. And beholding
her thus, her lovely face offset by the curtain of her hair, her deep,
long-lashed eyes, the vivid scarlet of her mouth, I knew the world
might nowhere show me a maid so perfect in beauty nor so vitally a
woman.

"Martin!" says she very softly, as she began braiding a thick tress of
hair. "Have you ever truly loved any woman?"

"No," says I, "No!"

"Could you so love, I wonder?"

"No!" says I again and clenching my hands. "No--never!"

"Why, true," says she, more softly, "methinks in your heart is no room
for poor Love, 'tis over-full of Hate, and hate is a disease incurable
with you. Is't not so, Martin?"

"Yes--no! Nay, how should I know?" quoth I.

"Yet should love befall you upon a day, 'twould be love unworthy any
good woman, Martin!"

"Why then," says I, "God keep me from the folly of love."

"Pray rather that Love, of its infinite wisdom, teach you the folly of
h