“Grace!  Grace!” His hands trembled with deep emotion, as he laid one on her shoulder, and with the other hushed the words that cut him so keenly.

As he had listened to her, and at last understood her overwhelming love for their boy—­and had realized, too, that it was indeed he who was to blame for their estrangement—­a look of deep surprise had gradually overspread his face.  Twice he had tried to interrupt her, but in vain, until finally, almost convinced by her torrent of anger, contempt and derision, that he had indeed lost all hold upon her affections, he had sunk back bewildered in his chair, and covered his face with his hands.  But the mocking refrain of the song was more than he could bear, and so he had sprung to his feet, gone to her side, and putting his hand over her scornful lips had hushed the song.

As she wheeled defiantly round and looked up at him, he said remorsefully, his face pale and haggard:  “I see, at last, Grace; I have been very blind and narrow; it is I, and only I, who am to blame for this estrangement.  Had I only understood earlier, and not have been so blinded with my own sorrow!  How very deeply you must have suffered, dear, with no one to comfort the bereaved mother-heart.  As I now look over the past I cannot think how ever I got to think that your nature was shallow, and that your affection for our boy was not deep and true.  Ah, how much easier it would have been had we borne the sorrow together, instead of suffering alone; and it was my fault that we did not!  Grace, I need your pardon to-night far more than ever you needed my help and sympathy; and I know, now, how great that was.”

He held out his arms pleadingly towards her:  “Grace, try and forgive me!”

If he had humiliated her in any other way than by telling her he would desert her, her deeply wounded pride could not have held out, and she surely must have found refuge in his arms.  But her humiliation had been so very deep, and her mood was now such that every nerve was quivering with indignation; so, subduing the pleading of her heart, she sprang away from the outstretched arms.  As she faced him the angry color again stole into her cheeks, and she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice:  “There are things, Harold, that a woman cannot forgive and retain her self-respect.  Even had I been as fickle as you thought, that would not have been sufficient reason for you to make up your mind to desert me; and in deserting me, place me in a position for the world to suspect, wag its head at, and gossip over.  You knew it would do this, and yet it did not alter your decision to throw me over.  And now, after having renounced me, you ask me to forget and fly back to your arms.”  She laughed bitterly, her manner growing cynical once more.  “No, no, Harold,” she continued, “there can be no kissing, no making up and being good between us; the knife has cut too deep.  I prefer facing the world, as you have decided, rather than trying to live down this humiliation with you, and being in constant dread of your threatening to desert me again, should any misunderstanding arise in the future.”