'Honor!' he exclaimed, 'what have you done?' She opened her hand, it was full of blood.
'I have grasped the glorious flower,' she said, 'and am covered with wounds, and pierced with thorns.'
'No—no, dear Honor,' he said, taking her hand, removing from it the prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his broken arm. 'There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I loved you.' Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and he said in an altered tone, 'You do not harbour anger, Honor; you forgive, when the offender is repentant.'
She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.
'I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect to get no forgiveness from you.'
'That is quite impossible,' he said, smiling.
'Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know—there will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will fall off.'
'Never, never, Honor!'
'You do not know.'
He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance of him, except his own former bad conduct?