was past. There are times when every woman feels she must have a
confidant, or her heart will burst--have counsel or she will die.
Such a time had come to Jessica. But she now learned, as we all must
learn, that we live our dark hour alone.

She listened as in a dream to the kindly bigot. When he had finished,
she knelt and received his blessing. All the time she wore that strange,
quiet smile. Soon afterwards he left her.

She went again to the window. "A papist and a Frenchman--unpardonable
sin!" she said into the distance. "Jessica, what a sinner art thou!"

Presently there was a tap, the door opened, and George Gering entered.
She turned to receive him, but there was no great lighting of the face.
He came quickly to her, and ran his arm round her waist. A great
kindness looked out of her eyes. Somehow she felt herself superior to
him--her love was less and her nature deeper. He pressed her fingers to
his lips. "Of what were you thinking, Jessica?" he asked.

"Of what a sinner I am," she answered, with a sad kind of humour.

"What a villain must I be, then!" he responded. "Well, yes," she said
musingly; "I think you are something of a villain, George."

"Well, well, you shall cure me of all mine iniquities," he said. "There
will be a lifetime for it. Come, let us to the garden."

"Wait," she said. "I told you that I was a sinner, George; I want to
tell you how."