e could have found in no
other woman. But she said within her heart that she owed him kindness
and gratitude--that she owed them all kindness, and that it would
be bad to repay them in such a way as this. She also thought of Sir
Peregrine's gray hairs, and of his proud standing in the county, and
the respect in which men held him. Would it be well in her to drag
him down in his last days from the noble pedestal on which he stood,
and repay him thus for all that he was doing for her?

"Well," said he, stroking her soft hair with his hands--the hair
which appeared in front of the quiet prim cap she wore, "shall it be
so? Will you give me the right to stand there with you and defend you
against the tongues of wicked men? We each have our own weakness, and
we also have each our own strength. There I may boast that I should
be strong."

She thought again for a moment or two without rising from her knees,
and also without speaking. Would such strength suffice? And if it did
suffice, would it then be well with him? As for herself, she did love
him. If she had not loved him before, she loved him now. Who had ever
been to her so noble, so loving, so gracious as he? In her ears no
young lover's vows had ever sounded. In her heart such love as all
the world knows had never been known. Her former husband had been
kind to her in his way, and she had done her duty by him carefully,
painfully, and with full acceptance of her position. But there had
been nothing there that was bright, and grand, and noble. She would
have served Sir Peregrine on her knees in the smallest offices, and
delighted in such services. It was not for lack of love that she must
refuse him. But still she did not answer him, and still he stroked
her hair.

"It would be better that you had never seen me," at last she said;
and she spoke with truth the thought of her mind. That she must do
his bidding, whatever that bidding might be, she had in a certain way
acknowledged to herself. If he would have it so, so it must be. How
could she refuse him anything, or be disobedient in aught to one to
whom she owed so much? But still it would be wiser otherwise, wiser
for all--unless it were for herself alone. "It would be better that
you had never seen me," she said.

"Nay, not so, dearest. That it would not be better for me,--for me
and Edith I am quite sure. And I would fain hope that for you--"

"Oh, Sir Peregrine! you know what I mean. You know how I value your
ki