“And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?” said he, in deep agitation.
“Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once lived in occupied by another,—a passing pang, perhaps, but no more.”
“How you are changed, Loo!” cried he.
“How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter! and the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our spring is past, Ludlow.”
“But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” cried he, passionately.
“Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know myself,” said she.
“I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo,” said he, sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your life. Is it not so?”
“Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, bitterly.
“And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?”
“If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it in your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for the first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I could command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as best I may.”