so necessary that her ear should be deaf.

But was her heart deaf to them? She swore to herself, over and over
again, scores and scores of oaths, that it was so; but each time
that she swore, some lowest corner in the depth of her conscience
seemed to charge her with a falsehood. Why was it that in all her
hours of thinking she so much oftener saw his face, Owen's, than she
did that other face of which in duty she was bound to think and
dream? It was in vain that she told herself that she was afraid of
Owen, and therefore thought of him. The tone of his voice that rang
in her ears the oftenest was not that of his anger and sternness,
but the tone of his first assurance of love--that tone which had
been so inexpressibly sweet to her--that to which she had listened
on this very spot where she now walked slowly, thinking of him. The
look of his which was ever present to her eyes was not that on which
she had almost feared to gaze but an hour ago; but the form and
spirit which his countenance had worn when they were together on
that well-remembered day.

And then she would think, or try to think, of Herbert, and of all
his virtues and of all his goodness. He too loved her well. She
never doubted that. He had come to her with soft words, and pleasant
smiles, and sweet honeyed compliments--compliments which had been
sweet to her as they are to all girls; but his soft words, and
pleasant smiles, and honeyed love-making had never given her so
strong a thrill of strange delight as had those few words from Owen.
Her very heart's core had been affected by the vigour of his
affection. There had been in it a mysterious grandeur which had half
charmed and half frightened her. It had made her feel that he, were
it fated that she should belong to him, would indeed be her lord and