Perhaps it is the doctors who hear that tone oftenest—­little wonder that they are men so often with sad or with calloused faces.

“What can I do?”

“I do not know what you can do.  But cannot you do something?  You were the only person in the world that I could go to.  I did not think I could ever come to you; but I had to come.  Help me.”

He perceived that commonplace counsel would be better than no counsel at all.

“Isabel,” he asked, “are you suffering because you have wronged Rowan or because you think he has wronged you?”

“No, no, no,” she cried, covering her face with her hands, “I have not wronged him!  I have not wronged any one!  He has wronged me!”

“Did he ever wrong you before?”

“No, he never wronged me before.  But this covers everything—­the whole past.”

“Have you ever had any great trouble before, Isabel?”

“No, I have never had any great trouble before.  At times in my life I may have thought I had, but now I know.”

“You do not need to be told that sooner or later all of us have troubles that we think we cannot bear.”

She shook her head wearily:  “It does not do any good to think of that!  It does not help me in the least!”

“But it does help if there is any one to whom we can tell our troubles.”

“I cannot tell mine.”

“Cannot you tell me?”

“No, I believe I wish you knew, but I could not tell you.  No, I do not even wish you to know.”

“Have you seen Kate?”

She covered her face with her hands again:  “No, no, no,” she cried, “not Kate!” Then she looked up at him with eyes suddenly kindling:  “Have you heard what Kate’s life has been since her marriage?”

“We have all heard, I suppose.”

“She has never spoken a word against him—­not even to me from whom she never had a secret.  How could I go to her about Rowan?  Even if she had confided in me, I could not tell her this.”

“If you are going away, change of scene will help you to forget it.”

“No, it will help me to remember.”

“There is prayer, Isabel.”

“I know there is prayer.  But prayer does not do any good.  It has nothing to do with this.”

“Enter as soon as possible into the pleasures of the people you are to visit.”

“I cannot!  I do not wish for pleasure,”

“Isabel,” he said at last, “forgive him.”

“I cannot forgive him.”

“Have you tried?”

“No, I cannot try.  If I forgave him, it would only be a change in me:  it would not change him:  it would not undo what he has done.”

“Do you know the necessity of self-sacrifice?”

“But how can I sacrifice what is best in me without lowering myself?  Is it a virtue in a woman to throw away what she holds to be as highest?”

“Remember,” he said, returning to the point, “that, if you forgive him, you become changed yourself.  You no longer see what he has done as you see it now.  That is the beauty of forgiveness:  it enables us better to understand those whom we have forgiven.  Perhaps it will enable you to put yourself in his place.”