"
"I did wrong you. In thought--in word. I ordered you from my home as if
you were indeed what they called you. But I was deceived. I see my
error. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I--"
"Please--please don't, Miss Sampson," interrupted poor Steele. I could
see the gray beneath his bronze and something that was like gold deep in
his eyes.
"But, sir, my conscience flays me," she went on. There was no other
sound like her voice. If I was all distraught with emotion, what must
Steele have been? "I make amends. Will you take my hand? Will you
forgive me?" She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at
her breast.
Steele took the proffered hand and held it, and did not release it. What
else could he have done? But he could not speak. Then it seemed to dawn
upon Steele there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of
her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong. For myself, I
thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
And there was resistance; I felt it; she must have felt it. It was poor
Steele's hard fate to fight the charm and eloquence and sweetness of
this woman when, for some reason unknown to him, and only guessed at by
me, she was burning with all the fire and passion of her soul.
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