She started to the room in which lay the body of her beloved dead, but a solemn-faced man met her at the door and told her gently but clearly that she could not enter.
She made no resistance, but allowed Lynde Pyne to close the door and place her in a chair beside the open window.
Her faculties seemed to be entirely restored, but not a tear relieved the terrible brilliancy of her eyes.
With the death of hope and the birth of despair, had come a calm that had the appearance of stoicism.
Lynde Pyne kneeled beside her, and taking the small cold hands in his, chafed them tenderly.
"Leonie," he said gently, "I wish that you would trust me, dear! I wish that you would remember that there is nothing in all this world that I would not do for you if you would only let me. I wish that you would try to think there is no trouble that I would not bear for you, if by so doing, I could relieve you of sorrow. You know that I would do that, do you not?"
She bowed her head upon his hand, but neither sigh nor moan escaped her.
"Child, you cannot bear this sorrow alone. Why will you not trust me?"
"Because I cannot. It is part of the curse that is upon me that I must suffer in silence. There is only one thing, and if you would promise that, there would be a load lifted from my heart—a load of shame! What am I saying? You must not listen to me, but—— You know that I love you, do you not?"
"Yes, I know that," he answered, with a curious intonation.