fore her, entirely unenclosed, and with no boundary but the horizon.
Two lines of rails, a waggon shed, and a few telegraph posts, alone
diversified the outlook. As for sounds, the silence was unbroken save by
the chant of the telegraph wires and the crying of the plovers on the
waste. With the approach of midday the wind had more and more fallen, it
was now sweltering hot and the air trembled in the sunshine.

Dick paused for an instant on the threshold of the platform. Then, in
two steps, he was by her side and speaking almost with a sob.

"Esther," he said, "have pity on me. What have I done? Can you not
forgive me? Esther, you loved me once--can you not love me still?"

"How can I tell you? How am I to know?" she answered. "You are all a lie
to me--all a lie from first to last. You were laughing at my folly,
playing with me like a child, at the very time when you declared you
loved me. Which was true? was any of it true? or was it all, all a
mockery? I am weary trying to find out. And you say I loved you; I loved
my father's friend. I never loved, I never heard of, you, until that man
came home and I began to find myself deceived. Give me back my father,
be what you were before, and you may talk of love indeed!"

"Then you cannot forgive me--cannot?" he asked.

"I have nothing to forgive," she answered. "You do not understand."

"Is that your last word, Esther?" said he, very white, and biting his
lip to keep it still.

"Yes; that is my last word," replied she.

"Then we are here on false pretences, and we stay here no longer," he
said. "Had you still loved me, right or wrong, I should have taken you
away, because then I could have made you happy. But as it is--I must
speak plainly--what you propose is degrading to you, and an insult to
me, and a rank unkindness to your father. Your father may be this or
that, but you should use him like a fellow-creature."

"What do you mean?" she flashed. "I leave him my house and all my money;
it is more than he deserves. I wonder you dare speak to me about that
man. And besides, it is all he cares for; let him take it, and let me
never hear from him again."

"I thought you romantic about fathers," he said.

"Is that a taunt?" she demanded.

"No," he replied, "it is an argument. No one can make you like him, but
don't disgrace him in his own eyes. He is old, Esther, old and broken
down. Even I am sorry for him, and he has been the loss of all I cared
for. Write to yo