"It was my duty," he answered, gloomily.
"I think you were unpardonable," said the girl.
"I see," replied Moore, "you came to reproach me, Bessie."
"What a deceitful fellow you are," she went on, shaking her pretty head in a sad way.
"I am," admitted the poet. "I am. Go on, Bessie, don't spare me."
She advanced a step or two as he, at a loss to understand why she was thus baiting him, turned bitterly away.
"I can't spare you," she said sternly.
"So it seems," he murmured, not looking at her, lest the sight of her girlish beauty make the pain in his heart too great to be endured.
"I can't spare you," she repeated, "I can't spare you," but this time her tone was one of loving tenderness and he turned to look at her in surprise.
She was standing with outstretched arms, her face eager and adoring, the old light shining soft and clear in her eyes.