“Yes,” replied Nancy, “with his secret.” “And you think,” continued the young man, again favouring her with a queer glance, “that because you have a secret, you and I are to part?” “Yes; I can be no fit wife for you—it breaks my heart to have to say it. I love you more than I have any words to express, but I have got a dreadful thing to do, Adrian, and I can be no fit wife for any man until it is accomplished.” “You think so now, of course,” said Rowton, “but by-and-by you will change your mind. You forget that you are young. Whatever burden your father has laid upon you he cannot crush your youth. I am also young. Dark things have happened in my life, but do you think they have crushed the youth out of me? Assuredly not, at least they have not when I look at you. I am here and you are my wild bird. I have lured you into my cage, and you are never going out again, Nancy, so you need not think it.” As he spoke Rowton clasped her again in his arms; he pressed her close to him and kissed her on her brow and lips. “Ah!” he said, “you cease to struggle; you are content with your cage.” “And with my master,” she said, bowing her head until it rested on his broad breast. “Yes, that’s right; it is folly to talk of parting lovers such as we are. Now, my little Nancy, you must cheer up. I’ll soon teach you a sweet new song. You won’t know yourself when I take you from all these dismal surroundings.” “What was I dreaming of?” said Nancy. “Your love is so sweet to me that for a moment I yielded. I cannot marry you, Adrian. It is impossible.” “You must give me a better reason than you have yet given, before I agree to any such nonsense.” “Adrian, do you think I would say a thing of this sort without very grave reason? It is not only the death of my father. Fathers and mothers die in the course of nature, but children still live on. No, it is not that. The burden laid upon me is of such a character that I must part from you. I must, Adrian, I must; the thought drives me mad. I wish I had never been born.” All Nancy’s apparent composure gave way at this juncture. Dry, tearless sobs shook her from head to foot; she tottered as if a storm had really blown over her, and but for Rowton’s protecting arms would have fallen. “Don’t hold me so close to you,” she panted at last, when she could find her voice; “don’t make it any harder. You guess, don’t you, how much I love you? Oh, why did God give me such passions, why did He give me the love I feel in my heart, and then crush me with such a fearful doom? Oh! I shall go mad, I shall go mad.”