“I made the same mistake,” she said, simply, “and I have paid very dearly for it.”
“Then, for a whole week afterward, Hermione, I went to Leeholme every day. I tried hard to find an opportunity of speaking to you; you were always surrounded by people. There were times, even, when I imagined you felt a delight in baffling what you must have known to be my heart’s desire.”
“It was but a girlish delight in mischief,” she interrupted; “and, ah me! the bitter price I have paid.”
“I wrote to you,” he continued, “finding that there was no chance of speaking. I wrote and told you how most dearly I loved you, and prayed you to be my wife. What was your answer to that prayer?”
He looked into her face as he asked the question; it was so sweet, sad and sorrowful, but there was no untruth to mar its beauty. The wind stirred the bluebells faintly, and a deep, soft sigh shivered through them.
“What was your answer to my prayer?” he repeated.
“None,” she replied. “I never received such a letter; therefore, I could not answer it.”
“Say that again,” he gasped, in a thick, hoarse voice.
“I never received it, Ronald. This is the first word I have ever heard of it.”
He reeled as though one had struck him a sudden, mortal blow. The sweet, soft voice continued sadly: