suddenly relinquished her strained attitude, and advancing a step or so began to murmur:
“I did not know—I did not realize I was doing what was so very wrong. Young ladies do not ask gentlemen to come and see them, no matter how much they desire to make their acquaintance. I see it now; I did not before. Will you—can you forgive me?”
I smiled; I could not help it. I could have taken her to my heart and soothed her as I would a child, but the pallor of womanhood, which had replaced the blush of the child, awed me and made my own words come hesitatingly.
“Forgive you? You must forgive me! It was as wrong for me,” I went on with a wild idea of not mincing matters with this pure soul, “to obey your innocent request, as it was for you to make it. I am a man of the world and know its convenances; you are very young.”
“I am sixteen,” she murmured.
The abrupt little confession, implying as it did her determination not to accept any palliation of her conduct which it did not deserve, touched me strangely. “But very young for that,” I exclaimed.
“So aunty says, but no one can ever say it any more,” she answered. Then with a sudden gush, “We shall never see each other again, and you must forget the motherless girl who has met you in a way for which she must blush through life. It is no excuse,” she pursued hurriedly, “that nurse thought it was all right. She always approves of everything I do or want to do, especially if it is anything aunt would be likely to forbid. I have been spoiled by nurse.”
“Was nurse the woman who came for me?” I asked.
She nodded her head with a quick little motion inexpressibly charming. “Yes, that was nurse. She said she would do it all, I need only