aintness as that of an infant.

"Oh, Rule! Rule! your anger is just! It is just!" cried Cora, wringing
her hands in despair.

He looked at her in great trouble, but his beautiful eyes expressed only
the most painful compassion. He could not answer her. He could not trust
himself to speak yet. His breast was heaving, working tumultuously. His
tawny-bearded chin was quivering. He shut his lips firmly together, and
tried to still the convulsion of his frame.

"Oh, Rule, be angry with me, blame me, reproach me, for I am to
blame--bitterly, bitterly to blame. But do not hate me, for I love you,
Rule, with a sister's love. And forgive me, Rule--not just now, for
that would be impossible, perhaps. But, oh! do forgive me after a while,
Rule, for I do repent--oh, I do repent that treason of the heart--that
treason against one so worthy of the truest love and honor which woman
gives to man. You will forgive me--after a while--after a--probation?"

She paused and looked wistfully at his grave, pained, patient face.

He could not yet answer her.

"Oh, if you will give me time, Rule, I will--I will banish every
thought, every memory of my--my--my season in London, and will devote
myself to you with all my heart and soul. No man ever had, or ever could
have, a more devoted wife than I will be to you, if you will only trust
me and be happy, Rule. Oh!" she suddenly burst forth, seeing that he did
not reply to her, "you are bitterly angry with me. You hate me. You
cannot forgive me. You blame me without mercy. And you are right. You
are right."

Now he forced himself to speak, though in a low and broken voice.

"Angry? With you, Cora? No, dear, no."

"You blame me, though. You must blame me," she sobbed.

"Blame you? No, dear. You have not been to blame," he faltered, faintly,
for he was an almost mortally wounded man.

"Ah! what do you mean? Why do you speak to me so kindly, so gently? I
could bear your anger, your reproaches, Rule, better than this
tenderness, that breaks my heart with shame and remorse!" cried Cora,
bursting into a passion of sobs and tears.

He did not come near her to take her in his arms and comfort her as
before. A gulf had opened between them which he felt that he could not
pass, but he spoke to her very gently and compassionately.

"Do not grieve so bitterly, dear," he said. "Do not accuse yourself so
unjustly. You have done no wrong to me, or to any human being. You have
done nothing but good to