“I will not hush,” she said. “I will speak for love's sake—for the sake of that love which I bear you—for the sake of that love which I know you return.”
“Alas—alas!”
“I know it. Is there any shame in such a girl as I am confessing her love for such a man as you? I think that there is none. The shame before heaven would be in my keeping silence—in marrying a man I do not love. Ah! I have known you as no one else has known you. I have understood your nature—so sweet—so simple—so great—so true. I thought last year when you saved me from worse than death that the feeling which I had for you might perhaps be gratitude; but now I have come to know the truth.”
He laid his hand on her arm, saying in a whisper—
“Stop—stop—for God's sake, stop! I—I—do not love you.”
She looked at him and laughed at first. But as his head fell, her laugh died away. There was a long silence, during which she kept her eyes fixed upon him, as he stood before her looking at the floor.
“You do not love me?” she said in a slow whisper. “Will you say those words again with your eyes looking into mine?”
“Do not humiliate me further,” he said. “Have some pity upon me.”
“No—no; pity is not for me,” she said. “If you spoke the truth when you said those words, speak it again now. Tell me again that you do not love me.”
“You say you know me,” he cried, “and yet you think it possible that I could take advantage of this second mistake that your kind and sympathetic heart has made for your own undoing. Look there—there—into that glass, and see what a terrible mistake your heart has made.”