each other," he
continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both.
It is best for us both to be dead to one another."

"It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if
you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know."

"There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never
loved me as I love you."

"No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in
her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we
were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I
should never love any one very much--not as you mean. It is not in my
nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem
very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I
could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I
could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing
darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still.
We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no
wrong."

"None," he said.

"But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will
long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and
how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this
longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign;
how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor,
ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may
die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this
morning."

"Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to
myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I
can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver
myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done
still; it is not too late. You shall decide again."

"No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an
evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences.
You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more
terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really
dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now
forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must
never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would
repudiate you if