cious
woe. She contrived, however, to quiet herself a little with the idea,
rather than the resolve, that, as soon as Godfrey came home, she would
tell him all, confessing, too, that she had not the courage to tell his
mother. She was sure, she said to herself, he would forgive her, would
set her at peace with herself, and be unfair neither to Mr. Helmer nor
to her. In the mean time she would take care--and this was a real
resolve, not a mere act contemplated in the future--not to go where she
might meet him again. Nor was the resolve the less genuine that, with
the very making of it, rose the memory of that delightful hour more
enticing than ever. How beautifully, and with what feeling, he read the
lovely song! With what appreciation had he not expounded Milton's
beautiful poem! Not yet was she capable of bethinking herself that it
was but on this phrase and on that he had dwelt, on this and on that
line and rhythm, enforcing their loveliness of sound and shape; while
the poem, the really important thing, the drift of the whole--it was
her own heart and conscience that revealed that to her, not the
exposition of one who at best could understand it only with his brain.
She kept to her resolve, nevertheless; and, although Tom, leaving his
horse now here now there, to avoid attracting attention, almost every
day visited the oak, he looked in vain for the light of her approach.
Disappointment increased his longing: what would he not have given to
see once more one of those exquisite smiles break out in its perfect
blossom! He kept going and going--haunted the oak, sure of some blessed
chance at last. It was the first time in his life he had followed one
idea for a whole fortnight.

At length Godfrey came. But, although all the time he was away Letty
had retained and contemplated with tolerable calmness the idea of
making her confession to him, the moment she saw him she felt such
confession impossible. It was a sad discovery to her. Hitherto Godfrey,
and especially of late, had been the chief source of the peace and
interest of her life, that portion of her life, namely, to which all
the rest of it looked as its sky, its overhanging betterness--and now
she felt before him like a culprit: she had done what he might be
displeased with. Nay, would that were all! for she felt like a
hypocrite: she had done that which she could not confess. Again and
again, while Godfrey was away, she had flattered herself that the help
the ob