lies about heaven
for yourself! What's the matter with you, Sheila?"

They had reached Mrs. Caldwell's gate, and for a moment they stood
staring at each other, the question hanging in the air between them.
Then there came to Sheila a swift, inward vision of the contradictions
of her own temperament, a vision untempered by the merciful knowledge
that, in the final analysis, all human nature is very much alike.

"Oh," she cried, "what _is_ the matter with me?"

And with a sob, she fled up the path to the house, leaving Ted
frightened, ashamed, and more bewildered than ever.

CHAPTER III

The moment when Sheila had that terrifying inward vision of her own
inconsistencies marked the beginning of her self-consciousness. For a
while this was acute and painful. She was always afraid of finding
herself, quite unintentionally, involved in a labyrinth of untruth, and
her conscience, which passionately rejected any dishonesty that it
perceived, was continually occupied in analyzing her emotions and
impulses, her most guileless thoughts and her simplest actions.

"I am naturally a liar," she told herself solemnly. "I must watch
myself all the time--because I am naturally a liar!"

But she said nothing of her self-revelation and ensuing struggles to
Mrs. Caldwell. It was a thing to be overcome in shame and silence, and
alone, this innate wickedness of hers.

Her shame was indeed so genuine that she met Ted, for the first time
after he had shown her failing to her, with deep reluctance. He must
have been thinking of her awful tendency ever since they had parted--as
she had been. And he could not possibly respect her! But to her
amazement, he greeted her with his usual manner of untroubled good
fellowship. Clearly, she had not sunk in his estimation. She was
astounded, and shocked at him as well as at herself, until it occurred
to her that he might have forgotten the matter altogether. This was
incredible, but more honorably incredible than that he should remember
and not care. And if it were the case, she must not take advantage of
his forgetfulness; she must not unfairly keep his esteem.

"Ted," she said, with an effort worthy of a more saintly confessor,
"Ted, I reckon I ought to remind you about the way I acted with
Lisbeth."

"What about it? Did your grandmother scold you much?"

"Why, no. Don't you understand what I mean?" It was too painful to
put her sin into words.

"Has Lisbeth been after