He lifted her up gently, and drew her towards him a little.
“Eline,” said he, “one day you told me that you had thrown away your happiness. Then I did not ask you what you meant by it, but now I ask you, do you mean by that the letter which you sent to Otto?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“With that letter you threw your happiness away, you say? Are you certain now that you are not throwing away your happiness for [[296]]the second time, or can I never make you happy? It is Otto alone who can do that?”
She looked at him with a melting expression in her eyes.
“Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured passionately, her head nearly on his bosom, “if I had but met you before—before all that had happened, I could not have cared for any one but you. But it could not be. It was my fate.”
“Oh, do not speak about fate. Fate is but a phrase. Every one makes his own fate. You—you are too weak to make one for yourself. Let me make your fate for you.”
“It cannot be,” she sobbed, and shook her head, which was nestled against him, hither and thither. “It can never be.”
“Yes, Eline, it can be,” he answered. “You say you could not have cared for any one but me had you seen me sooner. Perhaps in that case I might not have cared for you; however, these are suppositions which do not concern you in the least. All I know now is, that I like you as you are. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will be well again, I feel it.”
“That is no certainty,” she wept.