Then they walked side by side in silence, until they reached a broad, shady walk which was darkened by the large, spreading boughs of the trees, Earle wondering who she was--marveling at the rich silk and velvet she wore, at the dainty grace of the gloved hand, at the proud, yet graceful beauty, at the sweet voice. Who was she? Some one who trusted him, and who should find that he was to be trusted even to the very depths. Then the lady turned to him. "I know it is an idle question," she paid, "but I ask it for form's sake. Will you keep true and sacred the trust I am going to place in you?" "Until death!" he replied. "I promise it." "Now tell me," she said--"I have a right to ask the question, as you will learn--you were betrothed to Doris, who was known as Doris Brace." "Yes," he replied in a low voice, "I was." "Would you mind telling me whether that engagement still exists?" His face quivered with pain as he turned it to her. "I cannot answer you," he said; "I do not know. To me it exists solemnly and sacredly. I do not know what Doris thinks." Her voice was wonderfully soft and gentle as she continued: "I know that I am paining you; I am sorry for it. Was there any quarrel between you when you parted?" "No," he replied, "there was no quarrel." "How was it?" she asked, gently. "Do not fear to tell me." "I do not know; I was not good enough for her, perhaps--not bright and eloquent enough. Perhaps I loved her too dearly. She was the life of my life. She may have got tired of my mad, passionate love--only God knows. She left me." "How did she leave you?" persisted the sweet, pitiless voice. "I left her one day, believing she loved me, that in a very short time she would be my wife. I returned the next, and she had gone away, leaving a letter for me." "What did that letter say?" "It said that she could never marry me; that the quiet life and quiet ways would not suit her; that she had resolved to leave them. She was going abroad to teach some little children, and she prayed me never to find her, for she would never return." He drew his breath with a hard, painful gasp as he finished the words. "I shall find her," he added, with quiet force. "She promised to be my wife, and in the sight of the just God she is mine. I will never rest until I have found her, life of my life, the very heart of me. She shall not escape me." "Then she left you and broke her promise without any sensible reason whatever?" "If you will have the truth," he replied, "yes, she did so." "Faithless and debonair," murmured the lady, "like all of her race." "She is young," said Earle, in quick excuse, "and very beautiful. Perhaps in the years to come she may have more sense, and will be sorry for what she has done." "All the sorrow in the world could not undo the wrong she has done you," said the lady. "I would forgive her," said Earle. "She could do no wrong so great but that I could pardon her."