"I hope you have thrown away nothing that you ought to keep," she said at last. "It seems to me that you have got everything."
"No,—not as yet everything. I do not know whether I shall ever get that which I desire the most." Of course she understood him now; but she sat hard, and fixed, and stern,—so absolutely unlike the Clarissa whom he had known since they were hardly more than children together! "You know what I mean, Clarissa."
"No;—I do not," she said.
"I fear you mean that you cannot forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive."
"Oh yes, you have; whether you will ever forgive me I cannot say. But there is much to forgive;—very much. Your cousin Mary for a short moment ran away with us all."
"She is welcome,—for me."
"What do you mean, Clarissa?"
"Just what I say. She is welcome for me. She has taken nothing that I prize. Indeed I do not think she has condescended to take anything,—anything of the sort you mean. Mary and I love each other dearly. There is no danger of our quarrelling."
"Come, Clary," he got up as he spoke, and stood over her, close to her shoulder, "you understand well enough what I mean. We have known each other so long, and I think we have loved each other so well, that you ought to say that you will forgive me. I have been foolish. I have been wrong. I have been false, if you will. Cannot you forgive me?"