Rachel looked up and met his eyes. The despair in them cut her to the soul; she could have borne anything but this, to see his pain! She broke down suddenly, hiding her face in her hands, and her grief was anguish. He looked at her in pained surprise; hitherto he had thought only of his own trouble, now he became aware of hers, for she was weeping dreadfully.
"Rachel!"
She did not reply; she had stopped and was leaning against the slender stem of the silver birch, which they had reached again together. He could see only the curve of cheek and brow and the long, slender fingers clasped convulsively over her eyes; she was still weeping silently.
"I can't bear to see you like this, Rachel; is it because you're sorry for me?"
She tried to answer him but she could not.
"You're—you're not in trouble yourself?"
She shook her head; it was best to lie to him, but what a poor liar she was!
Her grief appealed to him, moving him to generosity and even to gentleness. "Don't think of me; it's just my portion. I've always loved you, Rachel; I wouldn't grieve you for the world."
"I grieved you!"
"Well, you couldn't help it. I was a fool not to know, I—I—" Then he broke out in spite of himself: "Rachel, did you love him when I went away?"