hen some stabbing instinct had made her
know that Maurice was not her "perfec' gentil knight," that same
instinct should make her know that she loved him!... Not with the old
love; not with the love that could overflow into words, the love that
had kissed him when he had been "bothered"! "I can never kiss him
again," she thought. She did not love him, now, "next to father and
mother--dear darlings!" And when she said that, Edith knew that the
"darlings" were of her past. "I love them next to Maurice," she thought,
smiling faintly. "Well, he will never know it! Nobody will ever know
it.... I'll just keep on loving him as long as I live." She had no doubt
about that; and she did not drop into the self-consciousness of saying,
"I am wronging Eleanor." That, to Edith, would not have been sense. She
knew that she was not "wronging" anyone. As for the unknown girl, who,
perhaps, had "wronged" Eleanor, and about whom, now, Maurice was so
ashamed and so repentant--she was of no consequence anyhow. "Of course
she is bad," Edith thought, "and the whole thing was her fault!" But it
was in the past; he had said so. "He said it was long ago. If," she
thought, "he did run crooked, why, I'm sorry for poor Eleanor; and he
ought to tell her; there's no question about _that_! It's wrong not to
tell her. And of course he couldn't tell me. That wouldn't be square to
Eleanor!... But I hate to have him so unhappy.... No; it's right for him
to be unhappy. He ought to be! It would be dreadful if he wasn't. But,
somehow, the thing itself doesn't seem to touch me. I love him. I am
going to love him all I want to! But no one will ever know it."

By and by she knelt down and prayed, just one word: _"Maurice."_ She was
not unhappy.

CHAPTER XXVI

During the next two days at Green Hill, Eleanor's dislike of Edith had
no chance to break into silent flames, for the girl was so quiet that
not even Eleanor could see anything in her behavior to Maurice to
criticize. It was Maurice who did the criticizing!

"Edith, come down into the garden; I want to read something to you."

"Can't. Have to write letters."

"Edith, if you'll come into the studio I'll play you something I've
patched up."

"I'm a heathen about music. Let's sit with Eleanor."

"Skeezics, what's the matter with you? Why won't you come and walk?
You're getting lazy in your old age!"

"Busy," Edith said, vaguely.

At this point Maurice insisted, and Edith sneaked out to the