"Good night, Davie!" said she.

"And O, good night, my love!" I cried, with a great outbreak of my soul,
and caught her to me again, so that it seemed I must have broken her.
The next moment I had thrust her from the room, shut to the door even
with violence, and stood alone.

The milk was spilt now, the word was out and the truth told. I had crept
like an untrusty man into the poor maid's affections; she was in my hand
like any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon of
defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that Heinoccius, my old
protection, was now burned. I repented, yet could not find it in my
heart to blame myself for that great failure. It seemed not possible to
have resisted the boldness of her innocence or that last temptation of
her weeping. And all that I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear
the greater--it was upon a nature so defenceless, and with such
advantages of the position, that I seemed to have practised.

What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in the
one place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without either choice or
fault of ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that narrow
place. I had a wild thought of marrying out of hand; and the next moment
put it from me with revolt. She was a child, she could not tell her own
heart; I had surprised her weakness, I must never go on to build on that
surprisal; I must keep her not only clear of reproach, but free as she
had come to me.

Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and repented, and beat my
brains in vain for any means of escape. About two of the morning, there