in my heart concealed from
you since first all this began. You have known that I have never
loved your friend."

"I know that, after full consideration, you have accepted him; and
I know also, that he is a man who will devote his whole life to make
you happy."

"It can never be. You may as well believe me. If you will not help
me, nor Mr. Fenwick, I must tell him myself;--or I must write to him
and leave the place suddenly. I know that I have behaved badly. I
have tried to do right, but I have done wrong. When I came here I was
very unhappy. How could I help being unhappy when I had lost all that
I cared for in the world? Then you told me that I might at any rate
be of some use to some one, by marrying your friend. You do not know
how I strove to make myself fond of him! And then, at last, when
the time came that I had to answer him, I thought that I would tell
him everything. I thought that if I told him the truth he would see
that we had better be apart. But when I told him, leaving him, as
I imagined, no choice but to reject me,--he chose to take me. Well,
Janet; at any rate, then, as I was taught to believe, there was no
one to be ruined by this,--no one to be broken on the wheel,--but
myself: and I thought that if I struggled, I might so do my duty that
he might be satisfied. I see that I was wrong, but you should not
rebuke me for it. I had tried to do as you bade me. But I did tell
him that if ever this thing happened I should leave him. It has
happened, and I must leave him." Mrs. Fenwick had let her speak on
without interrupting her, intending when she had finished, to say
definitely, that they at the vicarage could not make themselves
parties to any treason towards Mr. Gilmore; but when Mary had come to
the end of her story her friend's heart was softened towards her. She
walked silently along the path, refraining at any rate from those
bitter arguments with which she had at first thought to confound Mary
in her treachery. "I do think you love me," said Mary.

"Indeed I love you."

"Then help me; do help me. I will go on my knees to him to beg his
pardon."

"I do not know what to say to it. Begging his pardon will be of no
avail. As for myself, I should not dare to tell him. We used to
think, when he was hopeless before, that dwelling on it all would
drive him to some absolute madness. And it will be worse now. Of
course it will be worse."

"What am I to do?" Mary paused a moment, and then added,
sha