not be able to take it?"

"Was it all that you wanted?"

"Indeed it was. When I was in church that morning I told myself that
I never, never, could be happy unless you came to me again."

"But when I did come you would not have me."

"I knew how to love you," she said, "but I did not know how to tell
you that I loved you. I can tell you now; cannot I?" and then she
looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, I think I shall never be tired of
telling you now. It is sweet to hear you say that you love me, but it
is sweeter still to be always telling you. And yet I could not tell
you then. Suppose you had taken me at my word?"

"I told you that I should never give you up."

"It was only that that kept me from being altogether wretched.
I think that I was ashamed to tell you the truth when I had once
refused to do as you would have me. I had given you so much trouble
all for nothing. I think that if you had asked me on that first day
at the ball in London I should have said yes, if I had told the
truth."

"That would have been very sudden. I had never seen you before that."

"Nevertheless it was so. I don't mind owning it to you now, though
I never, never, would own it to any one else. When you came to us at
the theatre I was sure that no one else could ever have been so good.
I certainly did love you then."

"Hardly that, Ayala."

"I did," she said. "Now I have told you everything, and if you choose
to think I have been bad,--why you must think so, and I must put up
with it."

"Bad, my darling?"

"I suppose it was bad to fall in love with a man like that; and
very bad to give him the trouble of coming so often. But now I
have made a clean breast of it, and if you want to scold me you
must scold me now. You may do it now, but you must never scold me
afterwards,--because of that." It may be left to the reader to
imagine the nature of the scolding which she received.

Then on their way home she thanked him for all the good that he
had done to all those belonging to her. "I have heard it all from
Lucy;--how generous you have been to Isadore."

"That has all come to nothing," he said.

"How come to nothing? I know that you sent him the money."

"I did offer to lend him something, and, indeed, I sent him a cheque;
but two days afterwards he returned it. That tremendous uncle of
yours--"

"Uncle Tom?"

"Yes, your Uncle Tom; the man of millions! He came forward and cut
me out altogether. I don't know what went on d