‘But you thought I was a different girl then from what you know now. I have told you all. I--I--am--’ And here she faltered, and looked down at the blades of grass she was twisting about in her hands. ‘Let there be no misunderstanding between us, Nell. Let me finish the sentence for you, and don’t be offended at what I say, for I speak plainly, so that you may be sure that I do not deceive myself any more than you. I know now that you have parted with the greatest glory of your unmarried womanhood; that you have, what the world calls, fallen; that you lived in a state of sin for three long years, knowing it to be sin, and wished for no better lot; and that even at this moment you would go back to that condition if you could. Do I speak too plainly, my dear? Do I hurt you?’ Nell shook her head, but did not answer him in words. ‘Well, then, you see there is no need for you to tell me anything; and if there were the remotest chance of your being tempted to go back to that life, or if the man you cared for were in a position to marry you, I would not dare ask you to share my lot. But there is no chance of either of these things occurring to you. The only future I can see before you is, to live in this simple place where you will have no distraction from your sad thoughts, and where maybe you will eventually die, from fretting after the impossible, or from remorse for that which can never be undone again. If you can make up your mind to leave England with me, I think I can save you much of this. I think I can lead your thoughts to dwell on something better than your past life, and renovate your health by diverting them. I think that, with the help of God and time, I may be able to show you a way out of all this terrible trouble that bids fair to blight your youth, and live, perhaps, to hear you acknowledge that it was permitted in mercy to make you better able to sympathise with the sin and sufferings of your fellow-creatures. This is what I hope for, Nell; but I may be presumptuous in hoping it after all.’ ‘And you would make _me_ your wife, Hugh; knowing all and hating all, as you do. Oh, it is impossible. You are too good for me. I am not worthy to marry you. I told you so from the first.’ ‘We need not talk of worthiness or unworthiness to one another,’ answered Hugh. ‘We are man and woman, and I love you. That is quite enough. The matter lies between ourselves alone. No one else will ever hear of it.’