Philippa shook her head. He took her other hand and stroked it, as one might stroke a child's hand to comfort and encourage it.
"You must tell me, beloved," he said. Philippa looked at him with scared eyes; then, suddenly pulling her hands from his and turning away, she covered her face and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. He, confounded and frightened, followed her and tried to soothe her.
"Never mind, Philly, never mind! if you don't want to tell me—"
"I do want to tell you. I will tell you! You will despise me. But I will tell you. I DID A WICKED DEED. It was this very plant-here, where we stand, monk's-hood! It was poison. I didn't know—oh, I didn't know. The book said monk's-hood—it was a mistake. But I did a wicked deed. I tried to kill you—"
She swayed as she spoke, and then seemed to sink down and down, until she lay, a forlorn little heap, at his feet. For one dreadful moment he thought she had lost her senses. He tried to lift her, saying, with agitation:
"Philly! We will not speak of it—"
"I murdered you," she whispered. "I put the charm into your tea, to make you... love me. You didn't die. But it was murder. I meant—I meant no harm—"
He understood. He lifted her up and held her in his arms. Up on the porch William King saw that the two heads were close together!
"Why!" the young man said. "Why—but Philly! You loved me!"
"What difference does that make?" she said, heavily.