"Ah, dearest!"
"It seems an age since we first met, and yet it's only a year."
"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they paused in a nook where a delicious twilight prevailed.
"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as his dearest friend,—his most tried and trusted friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"
He drew her gently to him,—there was a kiss and an embrace.
"You discovered his infidelity. You brought me the letters written to him by the person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful to me. You brought them from time to time, and it was your sympathy with my wounded pride,—my trampled affection,—which consoled me and kept me alive. It was, Beverly."
"O, you say so, dearest," and as they came into light again, he felt her breast throbbing nearer to his own.
For a moment they paused by the table, whereon the wax candle was burning, its flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face half-averted from the light, as her head drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly beautiful.
"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her arm gently about his neck,—the touch thrilled him to the heart,—"you knew me, young, confiding, ignorant of the world. You took pity on my unsuspecting ignorance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, in these very rooms, you led me on, to see the full measure of my husband's guilt, and at the same time led me to believe in you, and love you."
She paused, and passed her hand gently among his flaxen curls.