"We do not need to light it, child," he said; "we can talk in the dark."
"Yes, sir, if you please," she answered, yet wondering somewhat; "but the room is not dark. I like the soft light of the fire; it brings rest to me. I shall be glad when day comes." She paused between each sentence, expecting him to speak; but he sat silent, watching the fitful shadows as they grew large and dwindled on the walls and ceiling "What are you thinking of, sir?"
"I am looking into the past," he replied presently, in sad and solemn tones.
"And you see—"
"A wasted life. A life that might have been useful and happy, and good in making others happy."
"Not yours, sir," she said pityingly--"not yours. Ah, sir, you speak as if your heart was troubled! Come closer to me, and let me comfort you, as you have comforted me."
"Not yet, child; I dare not. If, when you have heard what I have to say, you ask me to do that, I will fall at your feet and bless you! This wasted life that I see in the shadows that play about the room--may I tell you some passages in it?"
"It pains you to speak; it pains me to hear your sad voice—"
"Nay," he interrupted; "it relieves me. My heart will burst else; and I have waited for this so long, so long! You will listen in patience?"
"Yes, sir."