"Maybe you weren't," he said simply, "But it wasn't either your fault or mine--and you couldn't help it--that I wanted you."
He made a quick movement as he passed the table, and my work-basket fell at his feet, and a little jewel-box rolled across the floor. It was a ring he had brought me, only three days before.
He stooped to pick it up, and I saw his features contract as if in pain, as he laid it back upon the table. And his voice was unsteady, as he said, not looking at me while he spoke, "I hope you won't send any of these things back. If there's anything you're willing to keep, because I gave it to you, I'd like it very much. The rest send to your church, or somewhere. I don't want to have to look at them again."
By this time I was sobbing, and, sitting down by the table, had buried my face on my arms.
"I'm sorry that it makes you feel so," he said, "but it can't be helped. Don't cry, I can't bear to see you cry. Good-bye, Pauline; God bless you."
And he was gone. I did not realize it, and did not lift my head, till I heard the heavy sound of the outer door closing after him.
Then I knew it was all over, and that things were changed for me indeed.
"I cannot cry and get over it as you can," he had said.
And if tears would have got me over it, I should have been cured that night.