e. I did not glance at her. The
road was very rough, strewed with huge bowlders, and she was compelled
to receive my help. But we did not speak again till we were on the
cliffs, in the eye of day, with our faces and our steps turned toward
Tardif's farm.

"Oh!" she cried, suddenly, in a tone that made my heart ache the keener,
"how sorry I am!"

"Sorry that I love you?" I asked, feeling that my love was growing every
moment in spite of myself. The sun shone on her face, which was just
below my eyes. There was an expression of sad perplexity and questioning
upon it, which kept away every other sign of emotion. She lifted her
eyes to me frankly, and no flush of color came over her pale cheeks.

"Yes," she answered; "it is such a miserable, unfortunate thing for you.
But how could I have helped it?"

"You could not help it," I said.

"I did not mean to deceive you," she continued--"neither you nor any
one. When I fled away from him I had no plan of any kind. I was just
like a leaf driven about by the wind, and it tossed me here. I did not
think I ought to tell any one I was married. I wish I could have
foreseen this. Why did God let me have that accident in the spring? Why
did he let you come over to see me?"

"Are you surprised that I love you?" I asked.

Now I saw a subtle flush steal across her face, and her eyes fell to the
ground.

"I never thought of it till this afternoon," she murmured. "I knew you
were going to marry your cousin Julia, and I knew I was married, and
that there could be no release from that. All my life is ruined, but you
and Tardif made it more bearable. I did not think you loved me till I
saw your face this afternoon."

"I shall always love you," I cried, passionately, looking down on the
shining, drooping head beside me, and the sad face and listless arms
hanging down in an attitude of dejection. She seemed so forlorn a
creature that I wished I could take her to my heart again; but that was
impossible now.

"No," she answered in her calm, sorrowful voice. "When you see clearly
that it is an evil thing, you will conquer it. There will be no hope
whatever in your love for me, and it will pass away. Not soon, perhaps;
I can scarcely wish you to forget me soon. Yet it would be wrong for you
to love me now. Why was I driven to marry him so long ago?"

A sharp, bitter tone rang through her quiet voice, and for a moment she
hid her face in her hands.

"Olivia," I said, "it is harder upon