He could not have said what he intended to say had his life been the forfeit. He had meant to own to her that his love lay in ashes; but he could not hold those trembling hands in his, and look at those quivering lips, yet speak such words as must stab that tender heart. “I do love you, Clarice. Why, how many years is it since we were children together, since we played at love and jealousy?” “But,” she interrupted, “you have had another love since then.” Yes, Heaven help him! he had; and as he stood there, holding another woman’s hand in his, all the memory of that lost love came over him, and, looking up at the green trees, he half wished they might fall and crush him. Then he recovered himself with a violent effort and turned to her. “I do not attempt to deceive you, Clarice--I had another love. I will tell you all the truth, and you must reject me or take me, as you will. I loved Lady Hermione when we were children. She has been the one love, the one passion, the one loadstar of my life. I had no wish, no thought, that did not begin and end with her, and I believed she loved me. God grant that I may not speak too harshly of her! She deceived me with the most cruel words and looks; she drove me half mad, for when I offered my love to her, she threw it back at me. There were some false, scoffing words about being my friend for life--my friend! when she knew she had slain all that was best in me.” “Hush!” she said, with dignity; “you must not tell this to me.” “But I must tell you, Clarice, if we are to understand each other. Why are you so pale--why do you tremble--am I cruel to you?” “No; speak on; it is better, perhaps, I should hear.” “The letter she sent me, refusing me, slew in me all that was honest and best. It made me a coward, it unfitted me to battle with life, it destroyed every hope that makes manhood sweet and life precious.” “Was it so very hard to bear, Ronald?” she asked, pityingly; and he could not be deaf to the pain in her voice. “It was. I hide nothing from you. I do not know what madmen suffer, but it seems to me, on looking back, that for many long months afterward I was mad. There was nothing that I left undone to drive even the memory of her fair face from me; I could not do it. Clarice, a drowning man clings to a straw--I cling to you. Will you save me from the total wreck of life, reason and happiness? Can you be more generous than woman ever was before? Can you marry me, knowing that another woman has had the best of my life? Can you marry me, to save me and restore me to the world of men?” She clasped her hands round his arm. “You have said not one word of loving me, Ronald--not one word.” “But I will, God helping me. If you will trust your life and your happiness to me, I will--I will make you happy.” “Say you will love me, Ronald,” she whispered, raising her lovely face to his. He would have been more than mortal not to have been touched by the wistful sadness there.