ed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away,
exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,--'No, no, it is not
all!'

'What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and--'

'You shall know some time--but not now--my head aches terribly,' she
said, pressing her hand to her forehead, 'and I must have some
repose--and surely I have had misery enough to-day!' she added, almost
wildly.

'But it could not harm you to tell it,' I persisted: 'it would ease your
mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.'

She shook her head despondingly. 'If you knew all, you, too, would blame
me--perhaps even more than I deserve--though I have cruelly wronged you,'
she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

'You, Helen? Impossible?'

'Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your
attachment. I thought--at least I endeavoured to think your regard for
me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.'

'Or as yours?'

'Or as mine--ought to have been--of such a light and selfish, superficial
nature, that--'

'There, indeed, you wronged me.'

[Picture: Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth]

'I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon
the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your
hopes to dream themselves to nothing--or flutter away to some more
fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I
had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection
you seem to feel--'

'Seem, Helen?'

'That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.'

'How? You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with
greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged me by
giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment
of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were
vain--as indeed you always gave me to understand--if you think you have
wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves
alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting,
ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the
love of any other woman in the world!'

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and
glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance;
then, turning to me, she calmly said,--'To-morrow, if you meet me