’Miss Gwynne, I have long wished to say to you, how much I have felt your devotion to the schools and poor of our parish.  Now that we are about to lose you, perhaps, I may do so.  Glanyravon will gain what our poor East End loses.’

’Thank you.  If I leave London in a better spirit than I entered it, I am in great measure indebted to you for it.’

‘To me!’

’Yes.  I do not wish to flatter, or to be religiously sentimental; but your practical, simple sermons, and your still more practical life have done me much good.  Now we will not compliment one another any more.’

’Oh, Miss Gwynne! you do not know what you do when you say such words to me.’

‘I simply tell the truth.’

’I, too, have another truth to tell, which, if not told now, will never be told.’

Freda’s heart beat quick, and her face flushed.  She was thankful that silence concealed the one, and night the other.  But the truth was not what the heart whispered, and the pulsation slackened.

’Years ago—­I know not how many years, the time seems so long, and yet so short—­I insulted you by words that should never have been said.  We were on this very drive, near this very spot—­the same moon was looking down upon us.  This very tree was over our heads.  Do you remember?  You do—­alas! you must.  Pride, most improper pride in one who should be a teacher of humility, has prevented my alluding to the subject ever since.’

Rowland paused, and he and Freda stood still beneath that old oak, so well remembered by both.  She did not speak; she could not for the moment; and Rowland continued,—­

’Those words, which called forth your severe and deserved reproof, should never have been said; but your kindness, the hour, the scene, my own excited feelings, my—­in short, they were called forth involuntarily, but were wholly inexcusable.  I forgot my birth and position, and was punished accordingly.  Pride has kept me silent ever since.  Pride has prevented my saying that I am sorry now that I so forgot myself then, and pride has made me cold and reserved to you, when I saw clearly that you wished to be my friend, and have since proved yourself such.  Will you forgive me?’

Freda did not, as when they once before stood beneath that huge oak, draw herself up to her full height, and make an indignant answer.  She trembled, and glanced very timidly into the face that looked down upon hers.  There, in the cold moonlight, with the icicles hanging from the old tree, and the frost-spirit hovering near, she read that face more truly than she had done in the genial summer moonshine, and wished those words had never been spoken.  She said, gently but decidedly,—­

’Mr Rowland, it is I, not you who ought to crave forgiveness.  You did me an honour of which I was not deserving, and, therefore, I could not appreciate it.  I have repented of those proud words almost ever since.  I am heartily ashamed of them, and beg you to try to forget that they were ever uttered.’