"I do, Maurice--I do; let me prove it."

Treherne's chair was close beside the balustrade. Mrs. Snowdon leaned on
the carved railing, with her back to the house and her face screened by
a tall urn. Looking steadily at him, she said rapidly and low, "You
thought I wavered between you and Jasper, when we parted two years ago.
I did; but it was not between title and fortune that I hesitated. It was
between duty and love. My father, a fond, foolish old man, had set his
heart on seeing me a lady. I was his all; my beauty was his delight, and
no untitled man was deemed worthy of me. I loved him tenderly. You may
doubt this, knowing how selfish, reckless, and vain I am, but I have a
heart, and with better training had been a better woman. No matter, it
is too late now. Next my father, I loved you. Nay, hear me--I _will_
clear myself in your eyes. I mean no wrong to the general. He is kind,
indulgent, generous; I respect him--I am grateful, and while he lives, I
shall be true to him."

"Then be silent now. Do not recall the past, Edith; let it sleep, for
both our sakes," began Treherne; but she checked him imperiously.

"It shall, when I am done. I loved you, Maurice; for, of all the gay,
idle, pleasure-seeking men I saw about me, you were the only one who
seemed to have a thought beyond the folly of the hour. Under the seeming
frivolity of your life lay something noble, heroic, and true. I felt
that you had a purpose, that your present mood was but transitory--a
young man's holiday, before the real work of his life began. This
attracted, this won me; for even in the brief regard you then gave me,
there was an earnestness no other man had shown. I wanted your respect;
I longed to earn your love, to share your life, and prove that even in
my neglected nature slept the power of canceling a frivolous past by a