or did he not?"

"He did. Too true,--he did."

"Does he love you?"

"I--how should I know? his looks, his acts--I never thought--O Willie,
Willie!"--her voice going out in a little gasping sob.

"Come,--none of that. No sentiment,--face the facts. Think over all that
was said, every word. Have you done so?"

"I have,--every word."

"Well?"

"Ah, stop torturing me. Do not ask me any more questions. I am going
away,--flying like a coward. I will not tempt further suffering. And
yet--once more--only once? could that do harm? Ah, God, my God, be
merciful!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting them above her
bowed head. Then remembering, in the midst of her anguish, some words
she had been reading that morning, she repeated them with a bitter
emphasis,--"What can wringing of the hands do, that which is ordained to
alter?" As she did so she tore asunder her clasped hands, to drop them
clinched by her side,--the gesture of despair substituted for that of
hope.

"It is not Heaven I am to besiege!" she exclaimed. "Will I never learn
that? Its justice cannot overcome the injustice of man. My God!" she
cried then, with a sudden, terrible energy, "our punishment should be