‘Stay!’ she said, coming a step or two nearer to him. ‘Do not think that I fail to appreciate your generosity or the chivalrous kindness which prompts you to speak as you do. But—I am thinking of myself as well as of you. If such a thing as I have spoken of were to happen, although your affection for me might be in nowise changed thereby, with what feelings should I afterwards regard myself? I should despise myself, and justly so, to the last day of my life.’ ‘No—no! Believe me, you are fighting a shadow that has no substance behind it. I tell you again, and I will tell you so a hundred times, if need be, that with your Past I have nothing whatever to do. My heart tells me in accents not to be mistaken that you are a pure and noble-minded woman. What need a man care to know more?’ ‘I should fail to be all that you believe me to be, were I not to oppose you in this matter even against your own wishes.’ ‘Do you not believe in me? Can you not trust me?’ ‘Oh, yes—yes! I believe in you, and trust you as only a woman can believe and trust. It is the unknown future and what may be hidden in it, that I dread.’ She crossed to the chimney-piece, took up the letter, gazed at it for a moment, and then went back with it in her hand. ‘Since you were here five days ago, I have written this—written it for you to read. It is the life-history of a most unhappy woman. It is a story that till now has been a secret between the dead and myself. But to you it must now be told, because—because—oh! you know why. Take it—read it; and if after that you choose to come to me—then’—— Not a word more could she say. She put the letter into his hand, and turning abruptly away, crossed to the window, but she saw nothing for the blinding mist of tears that filled her eyes. Colonel Woodruffe, with his gaze fixed on the letter, stood for a moment or two turning it over and over in his fingers. Then he crossed to the fireplace. In a stand on the chimney-piece were some vesta matches. He took one, lighted it, and with it set fire to the letter, which he held by one corner till it was consumed. Madame De Vigne had turned and was watching him with wide-staring eyes. ‘“Let the dead Past bury its dead,”’ said the colonel gravely, as the ashes dropped from his fingers into the grate. ‘Your secret shall remain a secret still.’ ‘’Tis done! I can struggle no longer,’ said Madame De Vigne to herself. The colonel crossed to her and took one of her hands. ‘Nothing can come between us now,’ he said. ‘Now you are all my own.’ He drew her to him and touched her lips with his. All her face flushed rosy red, and into her eyes there sprang a light of love and tenderness such as he had never seen in them before. Never had he seen her look so beautiful as at that moment. He led her back to the ottoman and sat down beside her. ‘Tell me, dearest,’ he said, ‘am I the same man who came into this room a quarter of an hour ago—doubting, fearing, almost despairing?’ ‘Yes, the same.’