of his caste he acknowledged the obligation to avert dishonor in his
own family where he could. And, aside from family pride, he had a
strong personal regard for his cousin which was quite independent of
that sentiment which, for want of a better name, he called love. She
was young, she was lonely, she was unhappy, and his calmer affection
prompted him to protect her from himself, and not, after a brief
period of doubtful happiness, to leave her to a lifetime of tormenting
memories and regrets. She loved him, of course; and reckless with the
knowledge of her ruined life, her hopeless future, and above all the
certainty that youth and its delicious opportunities were slipping
fast, she would doubtless have gone the way of most women under
similar circumstances, had not Harold, for once in his life, been
strong. Perhaps, if he had really loved her, he would not have been so
self-sacrificing.

After her paroxysm of tears had partly subsided, he took her hand.
"What is the matter?" he asked, kindly. "Is there any more trouble?"

"It is the same," she said. "You know how unhappy I am; it was foolish
of me to break down here, but I could not help it. Besides, there is
another thing--I wish you would go away."

He walked to the end of the room, then returned and bent over her,
placing his hand on the back of the sofa. "Very well," he said, "I
will go. I should have gone before. I would have done so, but I hated
to leave you alone."

He lifted her face and kissed her. She laid her head against his
shoulder, then she suddenly pushed him from her with a low cry, and
Dartmouth, following her gaze, turned his head in time to meet the