Of All Faults The One She Most

For All His Pain, He Longed To See The Author Of It. Although He Hated Margaret At Times, When He Thought Of That Gentle Familiar Attitude And All The Attendant Circumstances, He Had A Restless Desire To Renew Her Picture In His Mind - A Longing For The Very Atmosphere She Breathed. He Was In The Charybdis Of Passion, And Must Perforce Circle And Circle Ever Nearer Round The Fatal Centre.

A Little Credulity Helps One On Through Life Very Smoothly.

Even Before He Left The Room, — And Certainly, Not Five Minutes After, The Clear Conviction Dawned Upon Her, Shined Bright Upon Her, That He Did Love Her; That He Had Loved Her; That He Would Love Her. And She Shrank And Shuddered As Under The Fascination Of Some Great Power.

Oh! That Look Of Love!" Continued He, Between His Teeth, As He Bolted Himself Into His Own Private Room. "and That Cursed Lie; Which Showed Some Terrible Shame In The Background, To Be Kept From The Light In Which I Thought She Lived Perpetually! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Mother, How You Have Tortured Me! Oh! Margaret, Could You Not Have Loved Me? I Am But Uncouth And Hard, But I Would Never Have Led You Into Any Falsehood For Me.

But I Was Right. I Think That Must Be An Hereditary Quality, For My Father Says He Is Scarcely Ever Wrong.