"My thoughts," replied Paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth a flower."
Helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed.
"Helene," said Paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. I was wrong, I was very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as I should have expected. I love you, Helene! I feel it, and I must away and see you no more. I have acted unwisely—I have acted improperly."
"And why should you not love me, Paul?" replied Helene, with a great effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard.
"Are you not Albert's affianced wife?" continued Paul, gravely.
"At last I can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me never say before. I and Albert were never affianced, never could be, for I could not love him."
"Helene! Helene!" cried Paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years ago? I said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced wife when he came back, and I must keep my word."
"True, true—but Paul, he could not have heard you. But you are right—you are right."
"Let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this unfortunate accident."
"Paul, you have been to me more than a brother and I will be just toward you. Influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but shame, because—"