“I hoped so you would forget,” she sobbed. “How could I forget? What man could help remembering you day and night? Oh, Blanche, don’t you understand that I love you? I love you!” “I understand only too well,” she said, glancing at him, her dark eyes brimming over with tears. He drew nearer. “And you will love me once more,” he said passionately. “You will not choose rank and wealth; you will—” “Oh, hush! hush!” she cried. “It has all been a dreadful mistake. I never really loved you. Oh, don’t look like that! I was very dull in Norway—there was no one else but you. I am sorry; very sorry.” He started back from her as if she had dealt him some mortal blow, but Blanche went on, speaking quickly and incoherently, never looking in his face. “After we went away I began to see all the difficulties so plainly—our belonging to different countries, and being accustomed to different things; but still I did really think I liked you till we got to Christiania. There, on the steamer coming home, I found that it had all been a mistake.” She paused. All this time she had carefully kept the fingers of her left hand out of view; the position was too constrained not to attract Frithiof’s notice. He remembered that, in the wearing of betrothal or wedding-rings, English custom reversed the Norwegian, and turned upon her almost fiercely. “Why do you try to hide that from me?” he cried. “Are you already betrothed to this other man?” “It was only last Sunday,” she sobbed. “And I meant to write to you; I did indeed.” Once more she covered her face with her hands, this time not attempting to hide from Frithiof the beautiful circlet of brilliants on her third finger. It seemed to him that giant hands seized on him then and crushed out of him his very life. Yet the pain of living went on remorselessly, and as if from a very great distance he heard Blanche’s voice. “I am engaged to Lord Romiaux,” she said. “He had been in Norway on a fishing tour, but it was on the steamer that we first met. And then almost directly I knew that at Munkeggen it had all been quite a mistake, and that I had never really loved you. We met again at one of the watering-places in September, but it was only settled the day before yesterday. I wish—oh, how I wish—that I had written to tell you!” She stood up impulsively and drew nearer to him. “Is there nothing I can do to make up for my mistake?” she said, lifting pathetic eyes to his. “Nothing.” he said bitterly. “Oh, don’t think badly of me for it,” she pleaded. “Don’t hate me.” “Hate you?” he exclaimed. “It will be the curse of my life that I love you—that you have made me love you.” He turned as though to go away. “Don’t go without saying good-by,” she exclaimed; and her eyes said more plainly than words, “I do not mind if you kiss me just once more.” He paused, ice one minute, fire the next, yet through it all aware that his conscience was urging him to go without delay.