"I can't, Grace! Oh, God! if I could!"
"Go!" she said. "For once, you have told the truth, when you said you were not worthy of me. All the rest you have said are lies—lies. You love me, you say, better than your own soul, and yet you refuse to tell me what it is that would keep me from you. If you loved me, you would trust me, confide in me. By your actions you have shown yourself unworthy of the love of any true woman. I have loved you as a sister—nothing more—but even that love is gone now. Go! I never want to see you again," and she turned from him.
A moment Mark stood; then he said, gently: "Grace, good-bye. It is best that you feel as you do, for I now know that it is only I who will suffer. I love you, Grace, and always will, but it will be a pure, a holy love. Nothing you can say or do can take from me the blessed privilege of loving you. Grace, will you not say good-bye?" No answer.
Mark turned wearily, and mounted his horse. As the sound of the horse's hoofs came to her, Grace started as if from a dream. She looked. He was already riding away. She rushed toward him, with outstretched arms.
"Mark! Mark! Come back!" she cried. "It was I that lied. I love you! I love you!"
He did not hear, or, if he heard, did not heed, for he rode on without looking back. She watched until he had disappeared in the distance; then, pressing her hands to her heart, sank down. The wind rustled through the trees, and sent a shower of withered leaves down upon her.
"Like my hopes," she murmured, "withered and dying; yet, even in death, they are beautiful!"
She noticed the imprint of Mark's foot where he had stood when he declared his love. A leaf, all orange and gold, with a splash of red in the center, had fallen and half concealed the imprint. She stooped and picked it up.
"He said he was not worthy to kiss the earth on which I tread," she whispered, and she pressed the leaf to her lips; then, with a shudder, she threw it from her, for she noticed her lips had touched the splash of red, which to her looked like blood.