"No? Well, I am here, you see. I have not met you in a long time, Celia, and I thought possibly you might be glad to see me once more."
"Glad?"
A swift light flashed into her pale eyes and illumined her features, and made her almost pretty. A younger edition of her sister, Mrs. Lynne; but her face was more refined, and she had a winning way, which contrasted strongly with Mrs. Lynne's awkward abruptness.
"Glad?" she repeated once more, softly. "You do not know how glad, Bernard!"
And in those few words one could read a whole volume of affection—affection for this cross-grained, unpleasant old man—that was truly wonderful. Celia Ray was the only woman who had ever loved Bernard Dane. And her love for him had been the bane of her life, the ruin of her happiness. For his sake she had lost everything on earth—all that the human heart prizes; all ties of home and friends; and all for naught. For Bernard Dane had not returned her affection; he had never loved any woman in all his long, hard life but Mildred Dane, who had not loved him.
Celia Ray stood gazing into the old man's face with an eager, rapt expression. To her he was young and handsome.
"You do not look well," she exclaimed. "I can see that you have been ill. And you would not let me know it! Oh, Bernard! why do you treat me with such hardness? Why have you doomed me to a lonely life? And yet you, too, are alone."
She sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, while under her breath she murmured brokenly:
"Dare I tell him all at this late day? Would he not kill me if he knew what I have done?"