past, I should have scorned to dissemble with you; and now that the subject is broached you shall have the particulars, which, I assure you, have kept well, though, as you suppose, sometime withheld.  I have been a member of the Church of Rome:  I have prayed to saints and the Virgin, counted beads and used holy water, and have knelt in confession to a priest of papal Rome.  I did all this, thinking, for a time, my salvation dependent on it.  You know all now.”

Mr. Stewart regarded her sadly as she uttered these words, and his stern tone softened as he noticed her bloodless cheek and quivering lip.

“Florence, it is not your former belief or practise that gives me this pain, and saddens our future.  If you were at this moment a professor of the Romish faith, I would still cherish and trust you:  I should strive to convince you of your error—­to point out the fallacy of your hopes.  When I recall the circumstances by which you were surrounded, and the influences exerted, I scarcely wonder that, for a time, you lent your credence and support.  But, Florence, full well you know that this is not what pains me.  It is the consciousness that you have kept me in ignorance of what your own heart told you would show your momentary weakness, and led me to suppose you entertained a belief at variance with your practise.  You have feared my displeasure more than the disregard of truth and candor.  Florence, Florence! knowing how well I loved you, and what implicit confidence I reposed in you, how could you do this?”

“Again, Mr. Stewart, I repeat that I perceive no culpability in my conduct.  Had I felt it my duty, your love or indifference would not have weighed an atom in my decision to act according to my sense of right and wrong.”

He turned from her, and paced to and fro before the fire.  Florence would have left the room, but Mary clasped her dress, and detained her.

“Mr. Stewart, you have been too harsh and hasty in your decision, and too severe in your remarks.  Florry has not forfeited your love, though she acted imprudently.  Ask your own heart whether you would be willing to expose to her eye your every foible and weakness.  For you, like all God’s creatures, have faults of your own.  Is there nothing you have left untold relative to your past?  Oh! if you knew how deep and unutterable has been her love, even when she never again expected to meet you, you would forget this momentary weakness—­a fault committed from the very intensity of her love, and fear lest she should sink in your estimation.”

“Mary, if she had said, Dudley, I have not always felt as now, and my mind was darkened for a time, I should have loved her, if possible, more than before, for her noble candor.  My own heart would have told me, This is one in whom you may eternally trust, for she risked the forfeiture of your love in order that truth might be unsullied.  How can I confide in one who values the esteem of man more than the