ith him as he is, rather than
imagine him what he never can be."

"Yes," I said, smiling at her philosophy. "It would certainly save
them a world of disappointment in after life. It has always struck me
that the extravagant investiture of fancy does not belong, as is
commonly supposed, to the meek, true and abiding attachment which it
is woman's highest virtue and noblest distinction to feel. I strongly
suspect it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a woman to
believe her lover perfect; because it enhances her triumph to be the
choice of such a man."

"Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph," she said with a sigh and an air
of deep seriousness. "The part of the true-hearted woman is to be
satisfied with her lover such as he is, old or young, and to consider
him, with all his faults, as sufficiently perfect for her. No after
development of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule or
exposure can weaken her tenderness for a single moment; while, on the
other hand, she who has blindly believed her lover to be without a
fault, must ever be in danger of awaking to the conviction that her
love exists no longer."

"As in your own case," I added, in an endeavour to obtain from her the
reason of this curious discourse.

"My own case!" she echoed. "No, Ralph. I have never believed you to be
a perfect ideal. I have loved you because I knew that you loved me.
Our tastes are in common, our admiration for each other is mutual,
and our affection strong and ever-increasing--until--until----"

And faltering, she stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence.

"Until what?" I asked.

Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek until
it reached her veil, and stood there sparkling beneath the light.

"You know well," she said hoarsely. "Until the tragedy. From that
moment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. I
feel--I feel," she confessed, covering her face with her hands and
sobbing bitterly, "I feel that I have lost you."

"Lost me! I don't understand," I said, feigning not to comprehend her.

"I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem," she faltered
through her tears. "Something tells me, Ralph, that--that your love
for me has vanished, never to return!"

With a sudden movement she raised her veil, and I saw how white and
anxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myself to believe
that such a perfect face could conceal a heart blackened by the crime
of