“I think,” he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could not have taken offence, “it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget.”
“How do you know?” she cried, turning pale.
Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor.
“One can see how much you cared for him,” was his reply, sadly uttered.
“Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? What makes you say that?”
“I only—look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole life will be darkened if you don't.”
“Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! I'll never give him up! Never!”
Pain showed on Turl's countenance. “You mustn't doom yourself—you mustn't waste your life,” he protested.
“Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?”
He waited a moment; then answered, simply, “I love you.”