lking in this way," she cried. "Marriage, for me,
with my foolish ideas, is impossible. I am destined to remain as I am."

My pulse quickened as she spoke.

"And why?" I asked;--for this evening of evenings was one for open
hearts and tender feelings.

"It was arranged for me that by this time I should be the wife of a
man; and,--God knows,--though I did not love him, I meant to be a true
and dutiful wife to him, even when I knew my eternal soul would be
bruised in the effort.

"This man was taller than you are, George. Sometimes, in your
devil-may-care moods, I seem to see him again in you. I am glad to
say, though, the similarity ends there.

"For all his protestations of love for me, for all his boasted ideals,
his anxiety for the preservation of his honour as a gentleman, he
proved himself not even faithful in that which every woman has a right
to demand of the man she is about to marry, as he demands it of her.

"I would not marry him then. I could not. I would sooner have died.

"That was my reward for trying to do my duty."

Her voice broke. "Sometimes, I wonder if any man is really true and
honourable."

She covered her face with her hands; she, who had always been so
self-possessed.

"The shame of it! The shame of it!" she sobbed.

In my heart, I cursed the dishonour of men. Would the dreadful
procession of it never cease? Deceit and dishonour! Dishonour and
deceit! Here, there, everywhere,--and always the woman suffering while
the man goes free!

I moved over beside her in the stern of the boat. I laid my hand upon
her shoulder. In my rough, untutored way, without breaking into the
agony of her thoughts, I tried to comfort her with the knowledge of my
sympathetic presence.

For long we sat thus; but at last she turned to me and her hair brushed
my cheek. She looked into my eyes and I know she read what was in my
heart, for it was brimming over with a love for her that I had never
known before, a love that overwhelmed me and left me dumb.

"George!" she whispered softly, laying her hand upon mine, "you must
not, you must not."

Then she became imperious and haughty once more.

"Back to your oars, sailorman," she cried, with an astonishing effort
at gaiety. "The dark is closing in and Mrs. Malmsbury will be thinking
all kinds of things she would not dare say, even if she were able."

Late that night, I heard the second verse of Mary's little song. It
was hardly sung; it was