"But, dear"
"And while I was just, just wringing my hands," she went on, with now a pathetic little cry in her every word, "that—that teacher-woman went out and saved you—saved you by finding the real murderer weeks before anyone else might have done it. Hers was a real helpful love. Mine was just—" she was laboring pitifully now—"just selfish and useless like—like me! She's entitled to you, Henry. I release you from your engagement. That's what I came to tell you. Oh, Henry!"
At last she had burst into tears and lowered her face into her hands; but even then she had not done with the indictment: "Oh, I've been so disappointed with myself," she sobbed through her fingers. "I thought I was strong, but I've been weak. I thought I was keen, but I've been blind. Oh, Henry! I've been so wrong—so wrong all the way."
Harrington stood quite astounded—at her—at himself; for he was strangely gratified by these tears. He'd seen her in tears before, of course; petulant storms of weeping that came after thwarting or bafftement of some sort; but those were tears of defeat. These, he discerned, were tears of triumph—tears of victory over herself. Why—he gazed more startled still, with a sudden feeling that he had been bereft of something—why, his old Billie, imperious, self-willed, self-sufficient, was gone. But there had come a new Billie, this contrite, broken blossom of a woman, humbly winsome, helplessly appealing as she proposed a most astounding sacrifice. Why, she was finer in every way, more lovable than the old Billie, who had swept him into raptures enough. He wanted to fall down
