I do most eagerly desire you, at this point in her story, to be just to Ruth Josselin.  I wish you to remember what she had suffered, in the streets, at the hands of self-righteous folk; to understand that it had killed all religion in her, with all belief in its rites, but not the essential goodness of her soul.

She at any rate, and according to the light given her, was incurably just.  Weighing on the one hand her love and Oliver Vyell’s, on the other the half-guessed injury their marriage might do to him and to others of his race; weighing them not hastily but through long hours of thought:  carrying her doubts off to the hills and there considering them in solitude, under the open sky; casting out from the problem all of self save only her exceeding love; this strange girl—­made strange by man’s cruelty—­decided to give herself in due time, but to exact no marriage.

Why should she?  The blessing of a clergyman meant nothing to her, as she was sure it meant nothing to her lover.  Why should she tie him a day beyond the endurance of his love?  Beyond the death of the thing itself what sanctity could live in its husk?  And, moreover, in any event was she not his slave?

So she reasoned:  and let the reader call her reasoning by any name he will.  By some standards it was wicked; by others wrong.  It forgot one of the strongest arguments against itself, as she was in time to prove.  But let none call her unchaste.

After certain weeks she brought her arguments to him; standing before him, halting in her speech a little, but entreating him with eyes as straight as they were modest.  Her very childishness appealed against her arguments.

He listened, marvelled, and broke into joyous laughter.  He would have none of it.  Why, she was fit to be a queen!—­a thousand times too good for him.  His family?  Their prejudices should fall down before her and worship.  As little as she did he set store by rites of the Church or believe in them:  but, as the world went, to neglect them would be to stint her of the chief honour.  Was this fair to him, who desired to heap honours upon her and would stretch for them even beyond his power?

His passion, rather than his arguments, overbore her.  That passion rejuvenated him.  Once or twice it choked his voice, and her heart leapt; for she was a sensible girl and, remembering the dead Margaret Dance, had schooled herself to know that what was first love with her, drenching her heart with ecstasy, could never be first love with him.  Yet now and again the miracle declared itself and instead of a lord, commanding her, he stood before her a boy:  and with a boy’s halting speech—­ah, so much dearer than eloquence!