given for his conduct seem to me inadequate. That is, if a man gave
those reasons to me--I believe I could never trust him again." Mary
spoke with conviction, but she realized that she felt like a
grandmother.

"Thank you," said Miss Burke. "That's what I wished to know." She
looked at the floor for an instant. "Suppose you felt that you could
trust him?"

Mary smiled and reflected. "If I loved him enough for that, I dare say
I should forgive him."

"You really would?" Then Miss Burke perceived that in her elation she
had failed to observe the logical inconsistency which the counsel
contained. "I don't know that I understand exactly," she added.

Mary smiled again, then shook her head. "I doubt if I can make it any
plainer than that. I mean that--if I were you--I should have to feel
absolutely sure that I loved him; and even then--" She paused without
completing the ellipsis. "As to that, dear, no one can enlighten you
but yourself.'

"Of course," said poor Miss Burke. Yet she was already beginning to
suspect that the sphinx-like utterance might contain both the kernel
of eternal feminine truth and the real answer to her own doubts.




II