For some minutes Tom stood facing the fire, and Elizabeth sat on her chair opposite without speaking. Then she took off her brooch, the only love-token he had given her, and put it into his hand.
"What's this for?" asked he, suddenly.
"You know. You'd better give it to Esther. It's Esther, not me, you must marry now."
And the thought of Esther, giddy, flirting, useless Esther, as Tom's wife, was almost more than she could bear. The sting of it put even into her crushed humility a certain honest self-assertion.
"I'm not going to blame you, Tom; but I think I'm as good as she. I'm not pretty, I know, nor lively, nor young, at least I'm old for my age; but I was worth something. You should not have served me so."
Tom said, the usual excuse, that he "couldn't help it." And suddenly turning round, he begged her to forgive him, and not forsake him.
She forsake Tom! Elizabeth almost smiled.
"I do forgive you: I'm not a bit angry with you. If I ever was I have got over it."
"That's right. You're a dear soul. Do you think that I don't like you, Elizabeth?"
"Oh yes," she said, sadly, "I dare say you do, a little, in spite of Esther Martin. But that's not my way of liking, and I couldn't stand it."