So I just stood still, with my eyes on the snow, and my hands locked tight together, for Colin had tried to take one of them. He was trembling much, and so I am sure was I. He had said only half-a-dozen words, when I begged him to stop, “unless he wished to break my heart.” And seeing him turn pale as death, and lean against the wall, I did indeed feel as if my heart were breaking. For a moment the thought came--let me confess it--how cruel things were, as they were; how happy had they been otherwise, and I could have made him happy--this good honest soul that loved me, his dear old mother, and every one belonging to us; also, whether anyhow I ought not to try.--No: that was not possible. I can understand women's renouncing love, or dying of it, or learning to live without it: but marrying without it, either for “spite,” or for money, necessity, pity, or persuasion, is to me utterly incomprehensible. Nay, the self-devoted heroines of the _Emilia Wyndham_ school seem creatures so weak that if not compassionating one would simply despise them. Out of duty or gratitude, it might be possible to work, live, or even die for a person, but _never_ to marry him. So, when Colin, recovering, tried to take my hand again, I shrunk into myself, and became my right self at once. For which, lest tried overmuch, and liking him as I do, some chance emotion might have led him momentarily astray, I most earnestly thank God. And then I had to look him in the eyes and tell him the plain truth. “Colin, I do not love you; I never shall be able to love you, and so it would be wicked even to think of this. You must give it all up, and let us go back to our old ways.” “Dora?” “Yes, indeed, it is true. You _must_ believe it.” For a long time, the only words he said were:-- “I knew it--knew I was not half good enough for you.” It being nearly dark, no one came by until we heard his mother's step, and her cheerful “Where's my Colin?”--loud enough as if she meant--poor dear!--in fond precaution, to give us notice of her coming. Instinctively we hid from her in the library. She looked in at the door, but did not, or would not, see us, and went trotting away down the corridor. Oh, what a wretch I felt! When she had departed, I was stealing away, but Colin caught my dress. “One word--just one. Did you never care for me--never the least bit in all the world?” “Yes,” I answered sorrowfully, feeling no more ashamed of telling this, or anything, than one would be in a dying confession. “Yes, Colin, I was once very fond of you, when I was about eleven years old.” “And never afterwards?” “No--as my saying this proves. Never afterwards, and never should, by any possible chance--in the sort of way you wish.” “That is enough--I understand,” he said, with a sort of mournful dignity quite new in Colin Granton. “I was only good enough for you when you were a child, and we are not children now. We never shall be children any more.”