ing that I would bear twice my own burden if I could but lift some of the trouble from your weak shoulders, and all at once something stood in my path, I looked up and saw your face, Nell, passionate, tender, transfigured, with a look upon it that had never through all these years grown under word of mine, and almost before I looked at the man by your side, I knew, Nell, I knew. . . . When I come back I shall find it easier, please God. After all," he says, with an attempt at cheerfulness that does not deceive me, "it is only now; it will not be so hard after a bit. But I did not come here to whine over my misfortunes. Good-bye, dear." He holds out his hand, and I put mine in his without a word, without a tear, and so we look hard at each other's pallid faces, for a moment, then—"God bless you!" he says. God bless you!" I echo, and he is gone.
When the door has closed, I sit down on the floor, and heedless of the fact that tears are a thrice-forbidden luxury in the house of Adair, cry long and bitterly, with no sneaking reservations as to quantity, quality, or the state of my appearance after it. Bitter and sweet, sweet and bitter, how have you not been mingled in my cup yesterday and to-day! and there should be only sweets in these my early, freshest days of happy, assured love. Perhaps this heavy-heartedness about George will wear away after a while, but just now my thoughts seem to go out more constantly to the lover who has gone away from me, than to him with whom I shall be face to face in a few hours' time; nay, in my keen burst of sorrow for George's misery, I can find it in my heart to wish it was to-morrow, not to-day, I was going to see Paul. And the hours slip away so quickly, four o'clock has even struck, and I am still standing before my looking-glass, gazing blankly at my puffy eyelids and red nose. It is quite certain that Mr. Paul will discover that he has made a shockingly bad bargain, for he does not strike me as being a man likely to look at his lady-love through rose-
