"It is not all. Since then I have"—
"How could you do it, Diana? how could you do it, after your heart was mine? while your heart was mine!"
"I was dead," she said in the same low, slow, impressive way. "I thought I was dead,—and that it did not matter any more what I did, one way or another. I thought I was dead; and when I found out that there was life in me yet, it was too late." A slight shudder ran over her shoulders, which Evan, however, did not see.
"And you doubted me!" said he.
"I heard nothing"—
"Of course!—and that was enough to make you think I was nothing but a featherhead!"—
"I thought I was not good enough for you," she said softly.
"Not good enough!" cried Evan. "When you are just a pearl of perfection—a diamond of loveliness—more than all I knew you would be—like a queen rather than like a common mortal. And I could have given you a place fit for you; and here you are"—
"Hush!" she said softly, but it stopped him.
"Why did you never hear from me? I wrote, and wrote, and O, Diana, how I looked for something from you! I walked miles on the way to meet the waggon that brought our mails; I could hardly do my duty, or eat, or sleep, at last. I would ride then to meet the post-carrier, though it did not help me, for I could not open the bags till they were brought into the post; and then I used to go and gallop thirty miles to ride away from myself. Why did you never write one word?"