that made her spirit writhe before her own bar of
justice. Then, by degrees, when there came a moment of comparative
calm, she forced herself to recognize the fact that it was the
Bettina of the past who had been so loved, and that the man who had
so loved her was that youthful and impulsive Horace. Was not the
present Bettina, the slightingly treated widow of his cousin, a very
different being--as different as was the present Lord Hurdly from
that old and outgrown other self? Surely the change in both was
great--a change which she construed as absolutely to her own
disadvantage as it was to his advantage.

Yet, in spite of this, that letter brought a strange strength to
her heart. Since it was now so plain that he had so truly, so
worshippingly loved her, she felt a summons to her soul to be her
highest possible, to overcome the slothful and the evil in her, and
live as it became the woman who had been so loved by such a man.
Above all, she longed to make her life avail for the good of others,
that she might make it a thank-offering for what she had received in
the knowledge that had come to her through that letter.

For, after its perusal, she knew that never again could she entertain
the doubts which had so often filled her mind at the thought of the
complete silence in which Horace had accepted her rejection of him.
Sometimes she had fancied that it might have been a relief to him--a
way out of a difficult situation; but now forever in her heart she
could carry the proud consciousness that she had been as passionately
loved as she had been desperately regretted.

It was a strange source, perhaps, from which to draw strength, but it
availed her now. With a sudden renewal of the energy of her youth she
began to look about her for work which she might do. Fortunately the
rector was ready with practical, immediate employment for heart and
hand, and pocket, too, alas! for now the fact was forced upon her
consciousness that she was poor. It would be as one of themselves,
only somewhat different in degree, that she must help these suffering
ones, and, in spite of being hampered by this limitation, there was a
certain sweetness in it. Her work among the poor had begun at Kingdon
Hall, and there she had been often baffled by the sense of the
difference between herself and those whom she wished to help. She
knew that this consciousness was in their hearts as well as in hers,
and that it made an impalpable but positive barr