window, stares out blindly upon
the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying
flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts.

He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courtship he had
entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly,
so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can
bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is
greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he
resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings--this
cold, cruel, lovely child--that he cannot tear her out without a still
further surrender of himself to death. To live without her--to get
through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing
her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure
tidings of her--seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he
sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his.

"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition.
A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is
upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How
can any one be angry with a face like that?

"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his
face,--her very touch has banished it,--and only a great and lasting
sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment
she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her
eyes fill with tears.

"I think--it will be better for you--to--give me up," she says, in a
down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are
like the summer sea now that they shine through their unwonted
moisture

"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,
Like drops that linger on the violet,"

and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms
and presses her head down upon his breast.

"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I
have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a
course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault.
Surely it is misery enough to know that,--to feel that I am nothing to
you,--without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from
your promise?"

"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed!
It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret
having married some one who does