Her head drooped again. He stood looking at her in silence for a few moments, wondering what prompted that speech—what, indeed, she really felt. Then he said, very gently: “Am I to understand that you really wish me to go?” She murmured “Yes.” “I will, then,” he said. “But you must give me your true reason for sending me away.” “For your—happiness,” she said, with a sigh. “My—happiness?” he repeated, bitterly. “Even though you may hate me because your father wished—_that_—I would rather stay near you, even though you would not look at me, or speak to me—than go away—now.” He hoped his earnestness might have some effect in eliciting the truth. But she still sat there dumbly, miserably. After a pause: “You are—very kind—he used to say so,” she murmured, with a sob. He felt somewhat exasperated. “I am _not_ kind,” he said. “And I never say anything I do not mean and feel. Don’t you believe me?” “_Really_ kind people do not know when they are kind,” she said, raising her grieved eyes and speaking more firmly. “Make no mistake, Mr. Paull. I understand your motives, which seem good to you. But they are not the best, or even good, for you or for me. I am positively certain of this.” “My motives?” he said, scornfully. “Then, I have none! I only know—that I love you!” he added, passionately. She fastened, as if in perversity, on the first half of his speech. “If you have no motives, I have motives,” she said, slowly. “Therefore I am the one to see clearly. And I plainly see, that the best thing for both of us is—that you should go away.” “But—why?” cried Hugh. (In his life, he had never felt more inclined to swear.) “That is all I ask you to tell me! Why?” “I gave you my reason,” she said. “For your happiness!” “My happiness! What do you know—or care—about my happiness?” he said, scornfully. “More than you care for mine!” she said, rousing a little. “Or you would go, without asking why!” “No, that I certainly should not,” he returned. “Oh, what waste of time this beating about the bush is! Lilia, I plainly see what all this means. You cannot love me!” He began pacing the room again. She, poor child, worn out by sleepless nights fighting against her inclinations—as she thought, for the welfare of this man whom she passionately loved—gazed sadly at him, a pathetic gaze of renunciation, which, if he had seen, might have enlightened him. But he did not see. “Well?” he said, at last, almost fiercely, halting opposite to her. “Your answer?” “I forget—what you asked,” she said, timidly. “That is answer enough!” he retorted sadly. “Poor, poor child! You shall not be sacrificed.” (Love him, and forget his question? The two things were incompatible. He was answered, he considered, and completely.) With a swelling heart she held out her limp, cold hand to him. “Be my brother,” she said, with a catching at her breath. “Remember—how alone—I am!” He stooped and lightly touched her hand with his lips.