st gently laid his hand on her quivering one. "Poor little
girl!" he murmured.

"Then _you_ came," she said, "and before long I had another feeling
to fight against. At first I thought it couldn't be true that I loved
you--it would die down. I think I was _frightened_ at the feeling; I
didn't know it hurt so to love any one."

Broomhurst stirred a little. "Go on," he said, tersely.

"But it didn't die," she continued, in a trembling whisper, "and the
other _awful_ feeling grew stronger and stronger--hatred; no, that is
not the word--_loathing_ for--for--John. I fought against it. Yes," she
cried, feverishly, clasping and unclasping her hands; "Heaven knows I
fought it with all my strength, and reasoned with myself, and--oh, I did
_everything_, but--" Her quick-falling tears made speech difficult.

"Kathleen!" Broomhurst urged, desperately, "you couldn't help it, you
poor child. You say yourself you struggled against your feelings. You
were always gentle; perhaps he didn't know."

"But he did--he _did_," she wailed; "it is just that. I hurt him
a hundred times a day; he never said so, but I knew it; and yet I
_couldn't_ be kind to him,--except in words,--and he understood.
And after you came it was worse in one way, for he knew--I _felt_ he
knew--that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog's, and
I was stabbed with remorse, and I tried to be good to him, but I
couldn't."

"But--he didn't suspect--he trusted you," began Broomhurst. "He had
every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so--"

"Hush!" she almost screamed. "Loyal! it was the least I could do--to
stop you, I mean--when you--After all, I knew it without your telling
me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own
fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn't prevent his knowing that I hated
him, I could prevent _that_. It was my punishment. I deserved it for
_daring_ to marry without love. But I didn't spare John one pang after
all," she added, bitterly. "He knew what I felt toward him; I don't
think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn't reproach myself?
When I went back to the tent that morning--when you--when I stopped
you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head
buried in his hands; he was crying--bitterly. I saw him,--it is terrible
to see a man cry,--and I stole away gently, but he saw me. I was torn
to pieces, but I _couldn't_ go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and I
shuddered to think of