“But her pale face! her pale face!”

“Once married, supplant him as he has supplanted you.  Away to Italy with her.  Fresh scenes—­constant love—­the joys of wedlock!  What will this Henry Little be to her then?—­a dream.”

“Eternal punishment; if it is not a fable, who has ever earned it better than I am earning it if I go on?”

“It is a fable; it must be.  Philosophers always said so, and now even divines have given it up.”

“Her pale face! her pale face!  Never mind him, look at her.  What sort of love is this that shows no pity?  Oh, my poor girl, don’t look so sad—­so pale!  What shall I do?  Would to God I had never been born, to torture myself and her!”

His good angel fought hard for him that day; fought and struggled and hoped, until the miserable man, torn this way and that, ended the struggle with a blasphemous yell by tearing the letter to atoms.

That fatal act turned the scale.

The next moment he wished he had not done it.

But it was too late.  He could not go to her with the fragments.  She would see he had intercepted it purposely.

Well, all the better.  It was decided.  He would not look at her face any more.  He could not bear it.

He rushed away from the bower and made for the seaside; but he soon returned another way, gained his own room, and there burnt the fragments of the letter to ashes.

But, though he was impenitent, remorse was not subdued.  He could not look Grace Carden in the face now.  So he sent word he must go back to Hillsborough directly.

He packed his bag and went down-stairs with it.

On the last landing he met Grace Carden.  She started a little.

“What! going away?”

“Yes, Miss Carden.”

“No bad news, I hope?” said she, kindly.

The kindly tone coming from her, to whom he had shown no mercy, went through that obdurate heart.

“No—­no,” he faltered; “but the sight of your unhappiness—­Let me go.  I am a miserable man!”

And with this he actually burst out crying and ran past her.

Grace told her father, and asked him to find out what was the matter with Mr. Coventry.

Mr. Carden followed Coventry to the station, and Coventry, who had now recovered his self-possession and his cunning, told him that for some time Miss Carden had worn a cheerful air, which had given him hopes; but this morning, watching her from a bower in the garden, he had seen such misery in her face that it had quite upset him; and he was going away to try and recover that composure, without which he felt he would be no use to her in any way.

This tale Carden brought back to his daughter, and she was touched by it.  “Poor Mr. Coventry!” said she.  “Why does he waste so much love on me?”

Her father, finding her thus softened, pleaded hard for his friend, and reminded Grace that she had not used him well.  She admitted that at once, and went so far as to say that she felt bound never to marry any one but Mr. Coventry, unless time should cure him, as she hoped it would, of his unfortunate attachment.