. I don't know how
it was then; I forgot everything. I knelt down and spoke to him, and--and
he took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he
was dead.'

'And you have never felt angry since?'

'O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than any one; it is I who
have been wrong all through.'

'No, Tina; the fault has not all been yours; _he_ was wrong; he gave you
provocation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly
help having ill feeling towards them. But that second wrong is more
excusable. I am more sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very bad
feelings towards Captain Wybrow; and if he had provoked me as he did you,
I should perhaps have done something more wicked.'

'O, it was not so wrong in him; he didn't know how he hurt me. How was it
likely he could love me as I loved him? And how could he marry a poor
little thing like me?'

Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, till Tina
said, 'Then I was so deceitful; they didn't know how wicked I was.
Padroncello didn't know; his good little monkey he used to call me; and
if he had known, O how naughty he would have thought me!'

'My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we
should not judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt,
since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe and
obstinate.'

In this way--in these broken confessions and answering words of
comfort--the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early
twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning
parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that
night the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had
acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relations
that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection: every new day and
night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the love
that is nourished by memories as well as hopes--the love to which
perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a
separated joy is the beginning of pain.

The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footsteps
in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to
affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, 'Maynard, are
you going away?'

'No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will
go away t