," he said, "for all the trouble that I have
brought upon you."

She smiled. "I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard of
these stories?"

"Yes, my father spoke to me; he told me of his conversation with you."

"All of it?"

"I do not know; I suppose so," and he hung his head.

"Oh!" she broke out in a kind of cry, "if he told you all----"

"You must not blame him," he interrupted. "He was very angry with me. He
considered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do not
think that he weighed his words."

"I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannot
help things, and the truth will out."

"Yes," he said, quite simply; "we love each other, so we may as well
admit it before we part."

"Yes," she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; "I know now--we love
each other."

These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this,
their declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions of
men and women, and not the less so because neither of them seemed to
think its fashion strange.

"It must always have been so," said Morris.

"Always," she answered, "from the beginning; from the time you saved
my life and we were together in the boat and--perhaps, who can
say?--before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our minds
we did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should have
found it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever have
really kept us asunder."

"Nothing but death," he answered heavily.

"That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith," she replied,
with one of her bright smiles. "Death will unite us beyond the
possibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly--to me, not
to you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean the
life of my body, but the real life, that within."

"I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there is
nothing to be done."

"Of course," she answered eagerly; "nothing. Do you suppose that I
wished to suggest such a treachery?"

"No, you are too pure and good."

"Good I am not--who is?--but I believe that I am pure."

"It is bitter," groaned Morris.

"Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because I
know that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would have
been bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how and
where it comes about? To-day we part--for ever in th