"Not exactly," he answered; "but it amounted to that. She wrote and asked me to release her; said she had found she loved him best."
"And you gave her up?"
"Certainly," he said, and I thought what a magnificent man he was; "yes, what else could I do? Or what else could she do?"
"Didn't you hate her?"
"No, of course not—I think she did perfectly right. Anything else would have been false to both of us. And they got married very soon after—they have three bairns now," and I wondered how he could smile such a happy kind of smile.
"And do you think," I said, "do you think any girl would be justified in changing—if she found—if she found she loved somebody else?"
"Yes," he answered slowly. "Yes, I think she would. But she has no right to find out anything of the sort—I would never find it out," he concluded firmly.
"You wouldn't?—why wouldn't you?"
"Because I shouldn't," he said; "that's why I wouldn't—if I loved, I'd love always."
"Would you have loved her always?" I asked, wondering at my rashness.