voice almost breaks my heart; "but I cannot tell you, George, I have never spoken to any one living of it save you, and more than I have told you I shall never tell."
We have risen, and are now standing by the brook that leaps, and chatters, and froths, and fusses as it goes, pausing not a moment to look at the old, old sight of a miserable man and girl who have wrecked their lives for love.
"Do not suppose that I do not care," I say, passionately; "do not suppose that I do not know, George."
"Yes, yes," he says; "but you must not fret about me. Think of yourself, my poor little darling. If I could only bear it for you!"
He breaks off, tries to speak again—fails; then, without a word or sign, goes quickly away, and I stand still looking after him with aching, burning eyes, and the heaviest heart woman ever had. Have I passed the pure gold by to covet the baser metal? Could Paul Vasher ever love a woman as purely, as truly, and as unselfishly as George loves me? There is a stronger, more selfish grit about Paul; he will have his own way, and no one shall baulk him of it; he will be master, and no one shall say him nay. He will assure his own happiness first, that of the woman he loves after; and while George would look up to his idol, Paul would look down.
George is quite out of sight now, and with weary steps I go to the stile that divides the meadow from the field of rye, and lean over it, thinking dully of that day two months ago, when I made my wreath and sent George away cross, and ran against Paul Vasher in the midst of the ripe grain.
"History repeats itself," I say, half aloud, as I watch those cunning workmen—the ants, scurrying about at the base of the primitive stone stile; "but only up to a certain point, and there it always fails. Now there is no Paul to come over the field to-day; he
