Joanna's eyes were shining. "It was a fine thing to do; for Paul's literary reputation was no light matter to him."
"I know it wasn't; it was the best thing he had, and he gave it up to save me."
That night Joanna lay awake, thinking over the strange story she had heard. "It must be wonderful to be loved like that!" she said to herself. And because nothing this side heaven can quite stifle the cry of the human heart for human love (if the human heart happen to be a woman's) there were tears on Joanna's lashes when at last she fell asleep.
Isabel also lay awake that night, torn by the conflicting emotions of love and pride. And because, when these two come into conflict, the result is a foregone conclusion, she wrote the next day to Paul:—
"MY DEAR PAUL,
"Will you forgive me? Not because I deserve it, but because I love you.
"Yours as you would,
"ISABEL CARNABY."
Then followed a season of great anguish of mind on Isabel's part. She now felt absolutely certain that Paul no longer loved her, and would therefore humiliate her by refusing his forgiveness; and she decided that she should at once hide herself from the world in a sisterhood, and spend the remainder of her disappointed days in conventual seclusion. She even went so far as to decide that she should call herself "Sister Marah," because life had proved so bitter to her. Isabel was nothing if not dramatic.
The answer to her letter came by telegraph:—
"Expect me Thursday.—PAUL."