come of all the
comforting phrases in the English language, that he could not put his
tongue upon one of them. "Do try to calm yourself, dearest. I know you
are exaggerating the true state of the case, as we are all prone to
do in moments of self-upbraiding. I never saw you lacking in respect
to him."

"There's a great many bad things in me you never saw," blubbered Mell,
breaking out afresh.

"Dear, dear!" said Rube, "I never saw such grief as this!"

"You--are--disgusted, I know?"

"Not a bit of it!" declared Rube; "just the contrary! I fairly dote on
the prospect of a wife who is going to cry hard and cut up dreadful
when anything happens to a fellow. It kind of makes dying seem sort of
easy. But, come, now; you've cried enough. Let me comfort you."

"No, no!" cried Mell, shrinking away from him. "If you only knew, you
would not want to comfort me. I do not deserve a single kind word from
you. I am unworthy your regard. I am a weak woman, and a wicked one.
Oh, Rube! I have not treated you right. That day at the picnic I was
angry with some one else; I was piqued; I did not feel as I made you
think I felt. I--that is--"

Here Mell broke down completely in her disjointed arraignment of self,
thoroughly disconcerted by the young man's change of countenance. His
breath came quick, a dark cloud overspread his features, and he lost
somewhat of his ruddy color.

"Do you mean, then, to say I was but a tool, and the whole thing a lie
and a cheat?"

Rube's thoughts sped as directly to their mark, as the well-aimed
arrow from the bent bow.

"Don't be so angry with me," prayed Mell, "please don't! You don't
know how much I have suffered over it. I say, at that time I thought I
cared for some one else, and so I ought not, in all fairness, to have
encouraged you; but, it is only since father died, that I have been
able to see things in their true light. I have had a false standard of
character, a false measure of worth, a false conception of human aims
and human achievement. Out of the wretchedness of sleepless hours I
have heard the under-tones of truth: Knowledge is great, but how much
greater is goodness without knowledge than knowledge without
goodness!"

Rube made no reply. He left her side, and, crossing the room, folded
his arms and looked moodily out of the window. He was very simple in
nature, somewhat slow, sometimes stupid; but loyal and true--true in
great things, and no less true in small ones, and as op