Again there was silence; and again the fire leapt with delight at the jest.
Sylvia Vernon arose suddenly and cried, "I would I had not come!"
Then said Sir John: "Nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have wakened. For, madam—you whom I loved once!—you are in the right. Our blood runs thinner than of yore; and we may no longer, I think, either sorrow or rejoice very deeply."
"It is true," she said; "but I must go; and, indeed, I would to God I had not come!"
Sir John was silent; he bowed his head, in acquiescence perhaps, in meditation it may have been; but he stayed silent.
"Yet," said she, "there is something here which I must keep no longer: for here are all the letters you ever writ me."
Whereupon she handed Sir John a little packet of very old and very faded papers. He turned them awkwardly in his hand once or twice; then stared at them; then at the lady.
"You have kept them—always?" he cried.
"Yes," she responded, wistfully; "but I must not be guilty of continuing such follies. It is a villainous example to my grandchildren," Dame Sylvia told him, and smiled. "Farewell."
Sir John drew close to her and took her hands in his. He looked into her eyes for an instant, holding himself very erect,—and it was a rare event when Sir John looked any one squarely in the eyes,—and he said, wonderingly, "How I loved you!"