pronunciation of the word appeared pathetic to Bancroft now; it brought
moisture into his eyes. What a fine old fellow Conklin was! Of course he
wished to bear the whole burden of his sin and its punishment. It would
be easy to go to him on the morrow and beg his pardon. Wrong done as the
Elder did it, he felt, was more than right. What a Christian at heart!
And what a man!

But the girl who asked for such a sacrifice--what was she? All the
jealousy, all the humiliation he had suffered on her account, came back
to him; she would have her father steal provided she got her piano. How
vain she was and self-willed; without any fine moral feeling or proper
principle! He would be worse than a fool to give his life to such a
woman. If she could drive her father--and such a father--to theft, in
what wrongdoing might she not involve her husband? He was warned in
time; he would not be guilty of such irreparable folly. He would match
her selfishness with prudence. Who could blame him? That was what the
hard glitter in her eyes betokened--cold selfishness; and he had thought
of her as Hebe--a Hebe who would give poisoned wine to those who loved
her. He was well saved from that.

The old Greek word called her up before him, and the spell of her
physical charm stole over his astonished senses like perfumed summer
air. Sitting beside her that evening, his arm round her waist, he had
felt the soft, full curves of her form, and thinking of it his pulses
throbbed. How fair her face was! That appealing air made her
irresistible; and even when she was angry, how splendidly handsome! What
a pity she should be hard and vulgar! He felt estranged from her, yet
still cherished the bitterness of disappointment. She was detestably
vain, common and selfish; he would be on his guard.