"I am very sorry," she said meekly. "It was my fault."

He observed other things now, having regained the use of his senses.
Thus he saw that she wore her hair, which was of a wonderful chestnut
brown color, parted at the side like a boy's, and that she had not
committed the horrible enormity of cutting it short. He observed, too,
that while her lips were quivering and her cheek was blushing, her
look was steadfast. Are dove's eyes, he asked himself, always
steadfast?

"I ought to have told you long ago, when you began to write
about--about yourself and other things, when I understood that you
thought I was a man--oh, long ago I ought to have told you the truth!"

"It is wonderful!" said the young man, "it is truly wonderful!" He
was thinking of the letters--long letters, full of sympathy, and a
curious unworldly wisdom, which she had sent him in reply to his own,
and he was comparing them with her youthful face, as one involuntarily
compares a poet's appearance with his poetry--generally a
disappointing thing to do, and always a foolish thing.

"I am very sorry," she repeated.

"Have you many pupils, like myself?"

"I have several pupils in mathematics. It does not matter to them
whether they are taught by a man or a woman. In heraldry I had only
one--you."

He looked round the room. One end was occupied by shelves, filled with