There was also his worry about little Gervaise. He might no longer hear how she was doing, for he could not get up courage to ask his mother the news. Thus poor George was paying for his sins. He could make no complaints against the price, however high—only sometimes he wondered whether he would be able to pay it. There were times of such discouragement that he thought of different ways of killing himself.

A curious adventure befell him during this period. He was walking one day in the park, when he saw approaching a girl whose face struck him as familiar. At first he could not recollect where he had seen her. It was only when she was nearly opposite him that he realized—it was the girl who had been the cause of all his misery!

He tried to look away, but he was too late. Her eyes had caught his, and she nodded and then stopped, exclaiming, "Why, how do you do?"

George had to face her. "How do you do?" he responded, weakly.

She held out her hand and he had to take it, but there was not much welcome in his clasp. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" she asked. Then, as he hesitated, she laughed good-naturedly, "What's the matter? You don't seem glad to see me."

The girl—Therese was her name—had a little package under her arm, as if she had been shopping. She was not well dressed, as when George had met her before, and doubtless she thought that was the reason for his lack of cordiality. This made him rather ashamed, and so, only half realizing what he was doing, he began to stroll along with her.

"Why did you never come to see me again?" she asked.

George hesitated. "I—I—" he stammered—"I've been married since then."

She laughed. "Oh! So that's it!" And then, as they came to a bench under some trees, "Won't you sit down a while?" There was allurement in her glance, but it made George shudder. It was incredible to him that he had ever been attracted by this crude girl. The spell was now broken completely.

She quickly saw that something was wrong. "You don't seem very cheerful," she said. "What's the matter?"

And the man, staring at her, suddenly blurted out, "Don't you know what you did to me?"

"What I did to you?" Therese repeated wonderingly.

"You must know!" he insisted.

And then she tried to meet his gaze and could not. "Why—" she stammered.

There was silence between them. When George spoke again his voice was low and trembling. "You ruined my whole life," he said—"not only mine, but my family's. How could you do it?"

She strove to laugh it off. "A cheerful topic for an afternoon stroll!"

For a long while George did not answer. Then, almost in a whisper, he repeated, "How could you do it?"