’You may imagine how uneasy these innuendoes made me.  You know my sensitiveness, and how prone I am to exaggerate things.  It seemed to me that more lay behind the margin of her words; and I was not wrong.

’In a little while there were other things hinted to me, but very gently.  Ah, she was kind enough to me in those days.  Did I not think that I was a little too imprudent and unreserved in my manner to Mr. Cunliffe?  She hated to make me uncomfortable, and of course I was so innocent that I meant no harm; but men were peculiar, especially a man like Mr. Cunliffe:  she was afraid he might notice my want of self-control.

’"You do not see yourself, Gladys,” she said, once; “a child would find out that you are over head and ears in love with him.  Perhaps it would not matter so much under other circumstances, but I confess I am a little uneasy.  His manner was very cold and strange last night:  he seemed afraid to trust himself alone with you.  Do be careful, my dear.  Suppose, after all, his feelings are changed, and that he fears to tell you so?”

’Ursula, can you not understand the slow torture of these days and weeks, the first insidious doubts, the increasing fears, that seemed to be corroborated day by day?  Yes, it was not my fancy; Etta was right; he was certainly changed; he no longer loved me.

’In desperation I acted upon her advice, and resigned my parish work.  It seemed to me that I was parting with the last shred of my happiness when I did so.  I made weak health my excuse, and indeed I was far from well; but I had the anguish of seeing the unspoken reproach in Mr. Cunliffe’s eyes:  he thought me cowardly, vacillating; he was disappointed in me.

’It was the end of April by this time, and in a week or two the day would come when he would have to speak to me again.  Would you believe it?—­but no, you could not dream that I was so utterly mad and foolish,—­but in spite of all this wretchedness I still hoped.  The day came and passed, and he never came near me, and the next day, and the next; and then I knew that Etta was right,—­his love for me was gone.’

‘You believed this, Gladys?’ but I dared not say more:  my promise to Max fettered me.

‘How could I doubt it?’ she returned, looking at me with dry, miserable eyes; and I seemed to realise then all her pain and humiliation.  ’His not coming to me at the appointed time was to be a sign between us that he had changed his mind.  Did I not tell him so with my own lips? did I not say to him that he was free as air, and that no possible blame could attach itself to him if he failed to come?  Do you suppose that I did not mean those words?’

‘Could you not have given him the benefit of a doubt?’ I returned.  ’Perhaps your manner too was changed and made him lose hope:  the resignation of all your work in the parish must have discouraged him, surely.’

‘Still, he would have come to me and told me so,’ she replied quickly.  ’He is not weak or wanting in moral courage:  if he had not changed to me he would have come.