“Dearest—dearest—dearest.”
Her effort faltered to resistless helplessness.
Stooping his head he looked at her face; it wore an almost tranquil, a corpse-like look. Her eyes were closed and the eyebrows drawn up a little in a faint, fixed frown; but the childlike line of her mouth had all the sad passivity of death. Odd tremblingly kissed the gentle sternness of the lips.
She loved him, but how cruel he was.
“Oh, my precious,” he said, “look at me. Forgive me; I love you.”
He had freed her hands, and she raised them and bent her face upon them.
“You don’t hate me for telling you the truth?” And as she made no sign: “No, no, you don’t hate me; you love me and I love you. I have loved you from the beginning. Oh, my child, my child, why did you let me think you did not care? Look at me, dearest.”
“What have I done?” said Hilda. She still kept her face hidden in her hands.
“You have done nothing; it is I, I who have done it!”
“I never could have believed it of you,” she said, and he felt it to be the simple statement of a fact.