"Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he told himself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and her trust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannot allow a shadow of deceit to rest on our happiness this heavenly night, and even though it hurts you——"
"Tell me, Dick," she said, as he lingered, reluctant to speak, "whatever it may be. I think I have had happiness enough to last a lifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you do not?"
"Love you? I worship you!"
"Then nothing can matter much," she interrupted.
"But I must say it," he persevered; "I am—I was engaged to marry——"
"Josephine?" a note of terror in the exclamation.
"Yes," with great contrition.
There was a long silence. The girl shrank away from him. She hid her face in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Was she not to be happy, after all?
He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt to restrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her in his arms again.
"Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery and reproach in her voice cutting him to the heart.