She saw him stoop down a moment. A sob shook her frame as he gathered the violets that had fallen from her throat, and placed them in his breast. Then he looked at her, saying:
"You can do this horrible thing—send me from you with this tortured heart to another? Then, indeed, you must be a child as she says. You cannot know the strength and the madness of love!"
"Go back to Ethel! It is my one prayer to you, Lord Chester," she faltered imploringly.
"Then I will go. May God forgive you, Precious," and he hurried away.
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
A PROUD GIRL'S HUMILITY.
"The roses that his hands have plucked
Are sweet to me, are death to me;
Between them, as through living flowers,
I pass, I clutch, I crush them, see!
The bloom for her, the thorn for me!"
—Crandall.