"I did not mean to deceive you; there was no plan. It was a wild temptation that swept over me suddenly when I found that you were free--not married as I had thought; that you still loved me, and that you--did not know. I said to myself, let me have the sweetness of her love for one short day, one short day only, and then I will tell her all. Yet I might have let it go on for a while longer, Anne, if it had not been for your own words this afternoon: you would go with me anywhere, at any time, trusting me utterly, loving me as you only can love. Your faith has humiliated me; your unquestioning trust has made me ashamed. And so I have come to tell you the deception, and to tell you also that I love you so that I will no longer trust myself. I do not say that I can not, but that I will not. And I feel the strongest self-reproach of my life that I took advantage of your innocent faith to draw out, even for that short time, the proof which I did not need; for ever since that morning in the garden, Anne, I have known that you loved me. It was that which hurt me in your marriage. But you are so sweet, so dangerously sweet to me, and I--have not been accustomed to deny myself. This is no excuse; I do not offer it as such. But remember what kind of a man I have been; remember that I love you, and--forgive me." For the first time he now looked at her. Still and white as a snow statue, she met his gaze mutely. "I can say no more, Anne, unless you tell me you forgive me." She did not answer. He moved as if to rise and come to her, but she stretched out her hand to keep him back. "You are too weak," she murmured, hurriedly. "Yes, yes, I forgive you." "You will wish to know how it all happened," he began again, and his voice showed his increasing exhaustion. "No; I do not care to hear." "I will write it, then." There was a momentary pause; he closed his eyes. The girl, noting, amid her own suffering, the deathly look upon his face, came to his side. "You must go back to the house," she said. "Will my arm be enough? Or shall I call July?" He looked at her; a light came back into his eyes. "Anne," he whispered, "would not the whole world be well lost to us if we could have but love and each other?" She returned his gaze. "Yes," she said, "it would--if happiness were all." "Then you _would_ be happy with me, darling?" "Yes." "Alone with me, and--in banishment?" "In banishment, in disgrace, in poverty, pain, and death," she answered, steadily. "Then you will go with me, trusting to me only?" He was holding her hands now, and she did not withdraw them.