st."

Only the day before, she had said that; and she had said, "I am happy,
Max. Isn't it strange! But I am." Only yesterday--and now there was
nothing. The Max that she had grown to love, with the gradual,
imperceptible advance of affection, sweet to her shy nature--that Max
had never been. No doubt all the while, over in Germany, a stout and
phlegmatic German landlord had been caring for his vineyards and playing
the war lord in the landwehr and living very comfortably with the
doughfaced German girl whose hair was lighter than her complexion, whom
the countess wanted him to marry; a man as unlike the high-souled knight
of her fancy as--as she, herself, was unlike the girl's image! Worst of
all was her own weak, false behavior. "No," she cried, in an access of
bitterness, "the worst is that I can't feel _that_ the worst; I can only
feel I have lost him, for ever! I don't seem to mind that I have lost
myself!"

Now she began to pace the room, trying to think clearly. Was it her duty
to tell Florence the story and let her tell the girls? The red-hot agony
of the idea seemed to her excited conscience an intimation that it _was_
her duty from which she shrank because she was a selfish, hysterical,
dishonorable coward. Horrible as such abasement would be, if it were her
duty, she could do it; what she could not, what she _would_ not do, was
to tear the veil from that pure and mystical passion which had been the
flower of her heart. "Not if it cost me my soul," she said, with the
frozen quiet of despair; "it is awful, but I can't do it!" One thing did
remain; she could remove the picture. That false witness of what had
never been should go. No eyes should ever fall on it again. It should
never deceive more. She walked toward it firmly. She lifted her
hand--and it fell. "I can't!" she moaned. "I'll do it to-morrow." She
could not remember, in years, so weak a compromise offered her
conscience.

But she felt a sense of respite, almost relief, once having decided, and
she recovered her composure enough to go to her chamber and bathe her
eyes. While she was thus engaged she heard a knock. "It is he," she said
quietly; "well, the sooner the better."

It was he; he had come earlier than he expected, he explained; he was
most grateful for Miss Wing's kind message. He looked like his uncle, as
the members of a family will look alike. He was not so tall; he was not
so handsome. Perhaps most people would call him more graceful.