again. But could that bitter, biting wind be tempered for the
she-wolf who, in the dead of night, had broken into the fold, and
with prowling steps and cunning clutch had stolen the fodder from the
sheep? That was the question as it presented itself to her; but she
sat silent, and refrained from putting it into words. She sat silent,
but he read her heart. "For the shorn lamb--" she had said, and he
had known her thoughts, as they followed, quick, one upon another,
through her mind. "Mary," he said, seating himself now close beside
her on the sofa, "if his heart be as true to you as mine, he will
never remember these things against you."

"It is my memory, not his, that is my punishment," she said.

Why could he not take her home with him, and comfort her, and heal
that festering wound, and stop that ever-running gush of her heart's
blood? But he could not. He had pledged his word and pawned his
honour. All the comfort that could be his to bestow must be given in
those few minutes that remained to him in that room. And it must be
given, too, without falsehood. He could not bring himself to tell her
that the sackcloth need not be sore to her poor lacerated body, nor
the ashes bitter between her teeth. He could not tell her that the
cup of which it was hers to drink might yet be pleasant to the taste,
and cool to the lips! What could he tell her? Of the only source of
true comfort others, he knew, had spoken,--others who had not spoken
in vain. He could not now take up that matter, and press it on her
with available strength. For him there was but one thing to say. He
had forgiven her; he still loved her; he would have cherished her in
his bosom had it been possible. He was a weak, old, foolish man; and
there was nothing of which he could speak but of his own heart.

"Mary," he said, again taking her hand, "I wish--I wish that I could
comfort you."

"And yet on you also have I brought trouble, and misery--and--all but
disgrace!"

"No, my love, no; neither misery nor disgrace,--except this misery,
that I shall be no longer near to you. Yes, I will tell you all now.
Were I alone in the world, I would still beg you to go back with me."

"It cannot be; it could not possibly be so."

"No; for I am not alone. She who loves you so well, has told me so.
It must not be. But that is the source of my misery. I have learned
to love you too well, and do not know how to part with you. If this
had not been so, I would have done