"Tell me," said he.
"Well, I have told you," said she, trying to be brave. "It is nothing. Only—sometimes—-" She broke down ignominiously, and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I am unhappy—unhappy!" she said bitterly.
"My darling!" said the young man. He did not try to take her hands from her face, but he drew her to him, and encircled her with his arms, and pressed her head down on his shoulder, with silent but fervent passion. He held her to him. "Agatha, you know I love you. I told myself I would not speak until I was sure that you loved me, and until I had something to offer you; but now, seeing you like this—if I can help you—-" He stopped and pressed his lips to her head. "You do love me, Agatha?"
Agatha raised herself, and, laying both her hands upon his breast, looked at him. Two tears still lay upon her cheeks, but she was not crying any more. Her face was transfigured—a most heavenly light was in her eyes. Dillwyn looked back at her, wondering—he had not know she was so beautiful. He caught her to him.
"Is it true," said he. "You really love me?"
"And you?"
"What a question! It doesn't deserve an answer. But you shall have it. Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul."
"Ah!" said Agatha. A cloud crept over her face. She looked at him.
"Why didn't you tell me so before?" she said.
He questioned her, and then all the truth came out—Dr. Darkham's proposal, her aunt's acquiescence in it, her horror and fear. Her hand was in his as she told him, and the nervous little fingers tightened on his in the telling. It was such a hateful story, and she had suffered so. But now—-