Take care, Valencia.  When a woman has to trust a man not to betray her, and does trust him, she may soon find it not only easy, but necessary, to do more than trust him.

However, in five minutes Campbell came in.  Valencia saw at once that there was no change in his feelings to her:  but he could talk of nothing but Headley, his self-devotion, courage, angelic gentleness, and humility; and every word of his praise was a fresh arrow in Valencia’s conscience; at last,—­

“One knows well enough what is the matter,” said he, almost bitterly—­ “what is the matter, I sometimes think, with half the noblest men in the world, and nine-tenths of the noblest women; and with many a one, too, God help them! who is none of the noblest, and therefore does not know how to take the bitter cup, as he knows—­”

“What does the philosopher mean now?” asked Scoutbush, looking up from the cold lamb.  Valencia knew but too well what he meant.

“He has a history, my dear lord.”

“A history?  What! is he writing a book?”

Campbell laughed a quiet under-laugh, half sad, half humorous.

“I am very tired,” said Valencia; “I really think I shall go to bed.”

She went to her room; but to bed she did not go:  she sat down and cried till she could cry no more, and lay awake the greater part of the night, tossing miserably.  She would have done better if she had prayed; but prayer, about such a matter, was what Valencia knew nothing of.  She was regular enough at church, of course, and said her prayers and confessed her sins in a general way, and prayed about her “soul,” as she had been taught to do,—­unless she was too tired:  but to pray really, about a real sorrow, a real sin like this, was a thought which never entered her mind; and if it had, she would have driven it away again:  just because the anxiety was so real, practical, human, it was a matter which had nothing to do with religion; which it seemed impertinent—­almost wrong to lay before the Throne of God.

So she came downstairs next morning, pale, restless, unrefreshed in body or mind; and her peace of mind was not improved by seeing, seated at the breakfast-table, Frank Headley, whom Lucia and Scoutbush were stuffing with all manner of good things.

She blushed scarlet—­do what she would she could not help it—­when he rose and bowed to her.  Half choked, she came forward and offered her hand.  She was so “shocked to hear that he had been so dangerously ill,—­ no one had even told them of it,—­it had come upon them so suddenly;” and so forth.

She spoke kindly, but avoided the least tone of tenderness:  for she felt that if she gave way, she might be only too tender; and to re-awaken hope in his heart would be only cruelty.  And, therefore, and for other reasons also, she did not look him in the face as she spoke.