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years have passed since that nigbt, when Elizabeth's story was virtually ended. All that followed came in natural sequence; and were this simply a narrative, cunningly worked up to a climax, I should not feel tempted to add another word. But in telling the story of Elizabeth Shaw's girlhood, the gradual formation of a strong character will, perhaps, to some, be of greater interest than the actual events which seem to have moulded it. How her husband's individuality acted on her—how, indeed, they mentally acted on each other—some may care to know. I have tried to show how the blunt, warm-hearted girl of eighteen mistook gratified vanity and susceptibility to a man's physical attraction for love; how, in the bitterness of revolt and indignation, she assumed a defiant, almost reckless attitude towards the world at large; and how, finally, the slow grrowth of a genuine passion subjugated a nature which might otherwise have become hard. The man who wrought this change was masterful, might even be thought arrogant, by many; but his very defects were such as suited a woman of Elizabeth's fibre; while the nobility of his character, unsoiled by any stain of worldly-mindedness,