says our paths are so different they cannot cross each other again.
There is a path of life, then, which I can never enter; there is a path
on which I must always, always walk, always, always, always that path,--
no escape! Never to come into that other one where there is no disguise,
no hiding, no false names,--never, never!" she started impatiently, and
with a wild look,--"It is killing me!"

Then, terrified by her own impetuosity, she threw herself on the bed,
weeping low. Her heart had now gone back to her grandfather; it was
smiting her for ingratitude to him. Could there be shame or wrong in
what he asked,--what he did? And was she to murmur if she aided him to
exist? What was the opinion of a stranger boy compared to the approving
sheltering love of her sole guardian and tried fostering friend? And
could people choose their own callings and modes of life? If one road
went this way, another that, and they on the one road were borne farther
and farther away from those on the other--as that idea came, consolation
stopped, and in her noiseless weeping there was a bitterness as of
despair. But the tears ended by relieving the grief that caused them.
Wearied out of conjecture and complaint, her mind relapsed into the old
native, childish submission. With a fervour in which there was self-
reproach she repeated her meek, nightly prayer, that God would bless her
dear grandfather, and suffer her to be his comfort and support. Then
mechanically she undressed, extinguished the candle, and crept into bed.
The moonlight became bolder and bolder; it advanced tip the floors, along
the walls; now it floods her very pillow, and seems to her eyes to take a
holy loving kindness, holier and more loving as the lids droop beneath
it. A vague remembrance of some tale of "guardian spirits," with which
Waife had once charmed her wonder, stirred through her lulling thoughts,
linking itself with the presence of that encircling moonlight. There!
see the eyelids are closed, no tear upon their fringe. See the dimples