Lord Henry invited her to visit the public gardens on the Fourth of July.  In the simplicity of her heart, she believed all his flattering professions, and considered herself his bride elect; she therefore accepted the invitation with innocent frankness.  But she had no dress fit to appear in on such a public occasion, with a gentleman of high rank, whom she verily supposed to be her destined husband.  While these thoughts revolved in her mind, her eye was unfortunately attracted by a beautiful piece of silk, belonging to her employer.  Could she not take it, without being seen, and pay for it secretly, when she had earned money enough?  The temptation conquered her in a moment of weakness.  She concealed the silk, and conveyed it to her lodgings.  It was the first thing she had ever stolen, and her remorse was painful.  She would have carried it back, but she dreaded discovery.  She was not sure that her repentance would be met in a spirit of forgiveness.

On the eventful Fourth of July, she came out in her new dress.  Lord Henry complimented her upon her elegant appearance, but she was not happy.  On their way to the gardens, he talked to her in a manner which she did not comprehend.  Perceiving this, he spoke more explicitly.  The guileless young creature stopped, looked in his face with mournful reproach, and burst into tears.  The nobleman took her hand kindly, and said, “My dear, are you an innocent girl?”

“I am, I am,” she replied, with convulsive sobs.  “Oh, what have I ever done, or said, that you should ask me such a question?”

The evident sincerity of her words stirred the deep fountains of his better nature.  “If you are innocent,” said he, “God forbid that I should make you otherwise.  But you accepted my invitations and presents so readily, that I supposed you understood me.”

“What could I understand,” said she, “except that you intended to make me your wife?”

Though reared amid the proudest distinctions of rank, he felt no inclination to smile.  He blushed and was silent.  The heartless conventionalities of the world stood rebuked in the presence of affectionate simplicity.  He conveyed her to her humble home, and bade her farewell, with a thankful consciousness that he had done no irretrievable injury to her future prospects.  The remembrance of her would soon be to him as the recollection of last year’s butterflies.  With her, the wound was deep.  In the solitude of her chamber she wept in bitterness of heart over her ruined air-castles.  And that dress, which she had stolen to make an appearance befitting his bride!  Oh, what if she should be discovered?  And would not the heart of her poor widowed mother break, if she should ever know that her child was a thief?