All this holds together.  I am perfectly calm; I am not deceiving myself.  I am calm because I see the need of self-possession and reflection.  Gabriel and Constance,—­it seems horrible to set it down thus before my poor eyes,—­they love one another.

And now let me be very careful, very just and true.  They love each other, but they do not know it.  I know it, because my great love has so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he nor she; themselves, perhaps, but me never.

I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these passing fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall not disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to the truth.  No; I will let their fancy run its own course, trusting that it may die before they become aware of its existence.

That is it; they do not know it yet, it is an unconscious attraction.  He loves me so firmly, he would never dream of infidelity to me; yet, just at present, he is unfaithful in thought and does not know it.  Poor dear, if he knew, how miserable he would be, how he would hate himself!  And Constance, too.  This is a cruel thing, but I think I can bear it; it must pass because they love me so much.  It rests with me; I must be very wise.  They are as sleep-walkers; I must lead them from danger, patiently, tenderly.  I think I can keep calm.

June 21st.—­It comes to me almost as a miracle what one can bear.  It seems that a certainty, however terrible, hurts less cruelly than doubt.  I suffered most at the dawning of my fears.  Now that I know the worst, I can strain my endurance to the requisite point.  Besides, it cannot last.  The more I think of it, the more natural it seems to me that they should thus forget themselves, for a while; have I not myself been foolish over both?  The fault, too, is mine; I brought them together; they are not to blame.

Some day I shall laugh at all this; and it is really endurable, even now.  The thing is to brace oneself sufficiently, to the exact point.  It seems to me I keep saying the same thing over and over again; but it is so necessary to keep it in mind.

June 25th.—­Gabriel is not well.  I noticed it a day or two ago.  This afternoon he came to fetch Constance and me for a walk; it had been so warm that we thought we would walk after tea.  And instead of walking, we stayed in the garden.  Mrs. Rayner—­thank mercy!—­was out driving with grandmamma and Uncle George.

We stayed in the garden, and idled through the hours; we each had a book, but I doubt that we read a dozen pages between us.  Nor did we talk much; every now and then we fell to talking, but the pauses had the best of it.

Gabriel looked very tired; I spread a rug out on the grass, and he fell asleep with his head on my knees.  My pretty Constance said to me, “You will be tired, you have nothing to lean against,” and she brought her chair up behind me so that I might lean against her.  She is very sweet, my Constance.  She put her head down next to mine, and we spoke in whispers, mostly of him.  She has no suspicion that she loves him more than need be.  But it came into my head then, looking down at Gabriel’s pale face, and remembering how he had said he could not sleep of nights, that perhaps he knows he loves her.