d like to be so. Most women like
goodness. It is instinct with us, I suppose. We had rather be good than
evil, and when we love we can do good things; but we quiver like the
compass-needle between two poles. Oh, believe me! we are weak; but we
are loving."

"Your worst, Ruth, is as much higher than my best as the heaven is--"

"Galt, you hurt my fingers!" she interrupted.

He had not noticed the almost fierce strength of his clasp. But his life
was desperately hungry for her. "Forgive me, dearest.--As I said, better
than my best; for, Ruth, my life was--wicked, long ago. You cannot
understand how wicked!"

"You are a clergyman and a good man," she said, with pathetic negation.

"You give me a heart unsoiled, unspotted of the world. I have been in
some ways worse than the worst men in the valley there below."

"Galt, Galt, you shock me!" she said.

"Why did I speak? Why did I kiss your hand as I did? Because at the
moment it was the only honest thing to do; because it was due you that
I should say: 'Ruth, I love you, love you so much'"--here she nestled
close to him--"'so well, that everything else in life is as nothing
beside it--nothing! so well that I could not let you share my
wretchedness.'"

She ran her hand along his breast and looked up at him with swimming
eyes.

"And you think that this is fair to me? that a woman gives the heart for
pleasant weather only? I do not know what your sorrow may be, but it is
my right to share it. I am only a woman; but a woman can be strong
for those she loves. Remember that I have always had to care for
others--always; and I can bear much. I will not ask what your trouble
is, I only ask you"--here she spoke slowly and earnestly, and rested her
hand on his shoulder--"to say to me that you love no other woman; and
that--that no other woman has a claim upon you. Then I shall be content
to pity you, to help you, to love you. God gives women many pains, but
none so great as the love that will not trust utterly; for trust is our
bread of life. Yes, indeed, indeed!"

"I dare not say," he said, "that it is your misfortune to love me, for
in this you show how noble a woman can be. But I will say that the cup
is bitter-sweet for you.... I cannot tell you now what my trouble is;
but I can say that no other living woman has a claim upon me.... My
reckoning is with the dead."

"That is with God," she whispered, "and He is just and merciful too....
Can it not be repaired here?" Sh