“I pitied you because you were ill and lonely. You do not deserve my pity, but I forgive that, and would not see you suffer,” was the reproachful answer, as Amy turned away.
But he held her fast, saying earnestly,—
“What have I done? You are angry. Tell me my fault and I will amend.”
“You have deceived me.”
“How?”
“Will you own the truth?” and in her eagerness to set her fears at rest, Amy forgot Helen.
“I will.”
She could not see his face, but his voice was steady and his manner earnest.
“Tell me, then, is not your true name Sigismund Palsdorf?”
He started, but answered instantly,—