responsible as it
was for her present discomfort. She knew that she was very fond of dear
Franklin, and that she always would be fond of him, but, with these
accusations crowding thickly upon her, she was ill at ease and unhappy
in his presence. What could she say to Franklin? 'I did, indeed, deceive
myself into thinking that I might be able to marry you, and I let you
see that I thought it; and then my friend's chance words showed me that
I never could. What am I to think of myself, Franklin? And what can you
think of me?' For though she could no longer feel pride in Franklin's
love; though it had ceased, since Helen's words, to have any decorative
value in her eyes, its practical value was still great; she could not
think of herself as not loved by Franklin. Her world would have rocked
without that foundation beneath it; and the fear that Franklin might,
reading her perplexed, unstable heart, feel her a person no longer to be
loved, was now an added complication.

'O Franklin, dear Franklin!' she said to him suddenly one day, turning
upon him eyes enlarged by tears, 'I feel as if I were guilty towards
you.'

She almost longed to put her head on his shoulder, to pour out all her
grief, and be understood and comforted. Franklin had not been slow to
recognise the change in his beloved's attitude towards him. He had shown
no sign of grievance or reproach; he seemed quite prepared for her
reaction from the moment of only dubious hope, and, though quite without
humility, to find it natural, however painful to himself, that Althea
should be rather bored after so much of him. But the gentle lighting of
his face now showed her, too, that her reticence and withdrawal had hurt
more than the new loss of hope.

'You mean,' he said, trying to smile a little as he said it, 'you mean
that you've found out that you can't, dear?'

She stood, stricken by the words and their finality, and she slowly
nodded, while two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

Franklin Kane controlled the signs of his own emotion, which was deep.
'That's all right, dear,' he said. 'You're not guilty of anything.
You've been a little too kind--more than you can keep up, I mean. It's
been beautiful of you to be kind at all and to think you might be
kinder. Would you rather I went away? Perhaps it's painful to have me
about just now. I've got a good many places I can go to while I'm over
here, you know. You mustn't have me on your mind.'

'O Franklin!' Alth