"I am not engaged; or perhaps I should say that I am engaged, and that she is free. If at the end of two years she is stronger in health, and her uncle withdraws his opposition, and she cares to accept me, I have promised to be ready. The last thing I ever meant was to ask any other woman to be my wife. But I was weak enough not to deny myself the bitter-sweet solace of telling you that I loved you; and thus I have drawn down punishment on myself. Cynthia, can you ever forgive me?" She did not answer; she seemed to be thinking deeply. After a few minutes' silence, she looked at him wistfully, and asked another question. "You said she did not love you. Was that true?" "I believe so." "Then why does she want to marry you?" There was something child-like in Cynthia's tone. "I don't think she does, Cynthia; I think it is only her uncle's wife who has been trying to bring about a marriage between us; and perhaps it was my conviction that this marriage would never come about which made me less careful than I might have been. Assuredly I never intended to tell you what I told you last night." "But I am glad you did," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly. Then she put her hand on Hubert's arm, and looked at him with a soft and beautiful expression in her large dark eyes. "I am glad, because it will make life easier for me to know that you care for me. Now I want you to listen to me for a few moments. From what you say, I think that this girl is weak in health, an orphan, and not perhaps very happy in her home? Yes, that is so--is it not? Do you think then that I would for a moment rob her of what might make all her happiness? You say that she does not care for you. But you may be mistaken; you know you thought that--that I did not care either. You must wait for her, and see what will happen at the end of the two years. If she claims you then--well, it will be for you to decide whether you will marry her; but I shall not marry you unless she gives you up of her own free will. And, if she does--and if you care for me still----" "Then you will be my wife?" Cynthia paused. "Then," she said slowly--"then you may, if you like, ask me again. But then you will perhaps remember that I am a nobody--that I was born in a cottage and educated at a charity-school--that I--that I---- No, I can't tell you my history now--don't ask me; if you love me at all, don't ask me that! I will tell you--I promise you--before I marry you, if ever--at the end of two years--at the end of half a century--you ask me again." She was weeping in his arms--she, the brilliant, joyous, successful woman, with a life of distinction opening out before her, with spirits and courage that never failed, with beauty and gifts that were capable of charming all the world--weeping like a child, and in need of comfort like a child. What could he do?