town that hated it; if she could only turn and knock--knock humbly--at
that closed door in her lover's life and heart. One touch!--one step!

Just as Helbeck could hardly trust himself to think of the joy of
conquest, so she shrank bewildered before the fancied bliss of yielding.

To what awful or tender things would it admit her! That ebb and flow of
mystical emotion she dimly saw in Helbeck, a life within a life;--all
that is most intimate and touching in the struggle of the soul--all that
strains and pierces the heart--the world to which these belong rose
before her, secret, mysterious, "a city not made with hands," now
drawing, now repelling. Voices came from it to her that penetrated all
the passion and the immaturity of her nature.

The mere imagination of what it would mean to surrender herself to
Helbeck's teaching in these strange and moving things--what it would be
to approach them through the sweetness, the chiding, the training of his
love--could shake and unnerve her.

What stood in the way?

Simply a revolt and repulsion that seemed to be more than and outside
herself--something independent and unconquerable, of which she was the
mere instrument.

Had the differences between her and Helbeck been differences of opinion,
they would have melted like morning dew. But they went far deeper.
Helbeck, indeed, was in his full maturity. He had been trained by Jesuit
teachers; he had lived and thought; his mind had a framework. Had he ever
felt a difficulty, he would have been ready, no doubt, with the answer of