He was silent.
"I know, Stephen. It kept you back"——
"And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever."
She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to speak again.
"I am not proud,—as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead.
"You loved me, then?" he whispered.
Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him.
"I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,—as you might be, not as you are,—not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,—I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this night."
She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never seen on his face struggled up,—the better soul that she knew.
"Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself. Come back, Margret."