228 The Light That Failed what I have done. By Jove! that accounts for Maisie’s running away. She must have thought me perfectly mad — small blame to her! The whole picture ruined, isn’t it so? What made you do it?” “Because I was that angry. I’m not angry now — I'm awful sorry.” “TI wonder. — It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’m to blame for making the mistake.” “What mistake?” “Something you wouldn’t understand, dear. Great heavens! to think that a little piece of dirt like you could throw me out of stride!” Dick was talking to himself as Bessie tried to shake off his grip on her wrist. “T ain’t a piece of dirt, and you shouldn't call me so! I did it ’cause I hated you, and I’m only sorry now “cause you're — cause you're —” “Exactly — because I’m blind. There’s noting like tact in little things.” Bessie began to sob. She did not like being shackled against her will; she was afraid of the blind face and the look upon it, and was sorry too that her great revenge had only made Dick laugh. “Don’t cry,” he said, and took her into his arms. “You only did what you thought right.” “I — [ain’t a little piece of dirt, and if you say that Ill never come to you again.” “You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I’m not angry — indeed, I’m not. Be quiet for a minute.” Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. Dick’s first thought was connected with Maisie, and it hurt him as white-hot iron hurts an open sore. Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally himself to the wrong woman. The first pang — the first sense of things lost is but the prelude to the play, for the very just Providence who delights in causing pain has decreed that the agony shall return, and that in the