en she had locked the door, she stood a moment upright with the
letter in her hand,--the blotted incoherent scrawl, where Langham had
for once forgotten to be literary, where every pitiable half-finished
sentence pleaded with her,--even in the first smart of her wrong--for
pardon, for compassion, as toward something maimed and paralyzed from
birth, unworthy even of her contempt. Then the tears began to rain over
her cheeks.

'I was not good enough,--I was not good enough--God would not let me!'

And she fell on her knees beside the bed, the little bit of paper
crushed in her hands against her lips. Not good enough for what! _To
save_?

How lightly she had dreamed of healing, redeeming, changing! And the
task is refused her. It is not so much the cry of personal desire that
shakes her as she kneels and weeps,--nor is it mere wounded woman's
pride. It is a strange stern sense of law. Had she been other than she
is--more loving, less self-absorbed, loftier in motive--he could
not have loved her so, have left her so. Deep undeveloped forces
of character stir within her. She feels herself judged,--and with
a righteous judgement-issuing inexorably from the facts of life and
circumstance.

Meanwhile Catherine was shut up downstairs with Robert who had come over
early to see how the household fared.

Robert listened to the whole luckless story with astonishment and
dismay. This particular possibility of mischief had gone out of his mind
for some time. He had been busy in his East End work. Catherine had been
silent. Over how many matters they would once have discussed with open
heart was she silent now?

'I ought to have been warned,' he said, with quick decision--'if you
knew this was going on. I am the only man, among you, and I understand
Langham better than the rest of you. I might have looked after the poor
child a little.'

Catherine accepted the reproach mutely as one little smart the more.
However, what had she known? She had seen nothing unusual of late,
nothing to make her think a crisis was approaching. Nay, she had
flattered herself that Mr. Flaxman, whom she liked, was gaining ground.

Meanwhile Robert stood pondering anxiously what could be done. Could
anything be done?

'I must go and see him,' he said presently. 'Yes, dearest, I must.
Impossible the thing should be left so! I am his old friend,--almost her
guardian. You say she is in great trouble--why it may shadow her whole
life! No--he must expl