They are the mystery of the world. When they would
deceive us it is beyond all our art to read them. Never shall man, even
the wisest, fathom the shallowest depths of a woman's heart. Their
superiors? God! we are their slaves, and the stronger we are as men, the
more are we enslaved.
Had it been left to my judgment to pronounce, I should have called her
emotion now a genuine one. Mocking, cynical, contemptuous she might have
been, and it would have suited my own mood. But what was it now on the
face of Grace Sheraton, girl of a proud family, woman I once had kissed
here at this very place until she blushed--kissed until she
warmed--until she--
But now I know she changed once again, and I know that this time I read
her look aright. It was pathos on her face, and terror. Her eye was that
of the stricken antelope in dread of the pursuer.
"Jack," she whispered, "don't leave me! Jack, _I shall need you!_"
Before I could resolve any questions in my mind, I heard behind us the
sound of approaching hoofs, and there rode up to the gate her brother,
Harry Sheraton, who dismounted and hitched his horse near mine, saluting
me as he pushed open the great gate.
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