“For heaven’s sake don’t let the miserable gossip, the worthless opinion of outsiders, make our lives miserable. What do we care for the world? It is nothing to us. Let them say what they will; so long as they only say lies what difference does it make to us?” “You don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, and for the first time the tears rushed to her eyes. “Your life has been all sheltered and happy. But out there in Bergen I have had to bear coldness and contempt and the knowledge that even death did not shield my father from the poisonous tongues of the slanderers. Lies can’t make the things they say true, but do you think that lies have no power to harm you? no power to torture you? Oh! before you say that you should just try.” Her words pierced his heart; the more he realized the difficulties of her life the more intolerable grew the longing to help her, to shield her, to defy the opinion of outsiders for her sake. “But don’t you see,” he urged, “that it is only a form of pride which you are giving way to? It is only that which is keeping us apart.” “And what if it is,” she replied, her eyes flashing. “A woman has a right to be proud in such matters. Besides, it is not only pride. It is that I can’t think of happiness while Frithiof is miserable. My first duty is to him; and how could I flaunt my happiness in his face? how could I now bring back to him the remembrance of all his past troubles?” “At least wait,” pleaded Roy, once more; “at least let me once more ask your final answer a few months hence.” “I will wait until Frithiof’s name is cleared,” she said passionately. “You may ask me again then, not before.” Then seeing the despair in his face her strength all at once gave way, she turned aside trying to hide her tears. He stood up and came toward her, her grief gave him fresh hope and courage. “Sigrid,” he said, “I will not urge you any more. It shall be as you wish. Other men have had to wait. I suppose I, too, can bear it. I only ask one thing, tell me this once that you love me.” He saw the lovely color flood her cheek, she turned toward him silently but with all her soul in her eyes. For a minute he held her closely, and just then it was impossible that he could realize the hopelessness of the case. Strong with the rapture of the confession she had made, it was not then, nor indeed for many hours after, that cold despair gripped his heart once more. She loved him—he loved her with the whole strength of his being. Was it likely that a miserable five-pound note could for ever divide them? Poor Roy! as Sigrid had said, he had lived such a sheltered life. He knew so little of the world. CHAPTER XXIX.