“Charles,” she said, “you know what you said to me last night?”
“Yes.”
“Was it true?”
“Why should you ask such a question? Why should you doubt its truth?”
“I try not to doubt it, but I cannot help it. Oh, tell me again that you do not hate and contemn me! Tell me you still love me.”
“My dear Edith,” replied the vicar, laying his hand on her arm, “you are not well. You have been overtaxing your strength and exciting yourself.”
Edith did not answer, but the tears rose to her eyes and began to run down her cheeks. She did not sob or make any sound of weeping, but her hand was pressed against her throat.
“Come, don’t cry like that; you know I cannot bear to see you cry.”
He stopped as he spoke, and took her hand in his. They stood still a little while, and she at length was able to speak.
“Do you remember,” she asked in a low, broken voice, “that I once told you you were my conscience?”