because it condemned her. In that moment she knew how much greatness there was in this man's nature, how much dignity in his passion.
"But your trust, your faith?" she said at last, as she looked up at him.
"Will be with you ever, as my love will be."
He stooped, and leant his cheek on hers, while low in her ear a few words stole; he could not keep them back from the aching and the longing of his heart.
"Tell me but one thing. You say you wore the mask of passion to fool them;—did you ever let another before me tell you of his passion thus?"
His own lips lingered in their kisses upon hers. She drew herself from his embrace with something of her old smile, of her old scorn.
"No. Or no prayer of yours should make me your wife."
"And then you ask me if my faith be perfect still? There are scores of women—women who would censure you—who think it no shame to bring tainted lips to their husbands."
"Well," she said, wearily, "give me not too much praise for being prouder, and it may be colder, than many women are! If I never bent to the follies of love, I was but the more blameable, perhaps, for using
