ight world without. It seemed to
her that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this day
must decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think of
it as she might. One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and she
delighted to think of it--the generosity of Charles Juxon. From first to
last, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he had
accepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friendship
for her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked by
her own husband, he had nobly brought the wretch home and was caring
for him as for one of his own blood--through all and in spite of all, the
squire had shown the same unassuming but unfailing generosity. She asked
herself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many like
Charles Juxon in the world. There was the vicar, but the case was very
different. He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he had
not asked her to marry him--she blushed at the thought--he had not loved
her. If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to Goddard was all the
greater.

She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the
world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Her
husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and
separated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face to
face with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possible
to love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly that
she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend
she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of
imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half
unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. There
was no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband no
longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for
him. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it,
and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friendship, she would have
called herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved
respect, esteem and friendship, it was the squire.

Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed
the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely
rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt. Had any harm come to him, she would
have been, if