more than once with snatches of love-songs on her lips, and when she
smiled upon me there was a sweet tenderness in her smile, which, had
things been different, would have gladdened my soul beyond all else;
but which, things being as they were, was rather wont to heighten
my despair. I was no coxcomb; I had had experiences, and I knew
these signs. But something, too, I guessed of the heart of such a
one as Roxalanne. To the full I realized the pain and shame I should
inflict upon her when my confession came; I realized, too, how the
love of this dear child, so honourable and high of mind, must turn
to contempt and scorn when I plucked away my mask, and let her see
how poor a countenance I wore beneath.

And yet I drifted with the tide of things. It was my habit so to
drift, and the habit of a lifetime is not to be set at naught in a
day by a resolve, however firm. A score of times was I reminded
that an evil is but increased by being ignored. A score of times
confession trembled on my lips, and I burned to tell her everything
from its inception - the environment that had erstwhile warped me,
the honesty by which I was now inspired - and so cast myself upon
the mercy of her belief.

She might accept my story, and, attaching credit to it, forgive me
the deception I had practised, and recognize the great truth that
must ring out in the avowal of my love. But, on the other hand,
she might not accept it; she might deem my confession a shrewd part
of my scheme, and the dread of that kept me silent day by day.

Fully did I see how with every hour that sped confession became
more and more difficult. The sooner the thing were done, the
greater the likelihood of my being believed; the later I left it,