‘Have you quite forgotten?’ he repeated. ‘When you crushed the best hope of my life, Iris, you left me one consolation--you promised to remain my friend. But that promise is still unredeemed. I heard that you were married, but nothing more. I have never forgotten you, but I had no hope we should meet again. Now that it has happened so unexpectedly, I find you alone--in trouble--and in a position utterly unfitted for you. Won’t you fulfil your old promise now? Won’t you let me be your friend, and help you as far as lies in my power? Where is your husband?’ ‘I have no husband,’ she answered, blushing furiously. ‘No husband!’ cried Vernon. ‘Was it a mistake then? Have you never been married?’ Iris nodded her head. ‘And he is dead?’ The girl started. She had never thought of this solution to the difficulty. Of course she would pass herself off as a widow. Nothing could be easier. The anxious expression in a great measure left her face as it occurred to her. She did not foresee the dilemma it might create for them both. ‘Yes,’ she answered, almost eagerly, ‘he is dead. I am alone.’ ‘And your father, is he gone too?’ ‘Yes, thank God. I mean that it would have broken his heart to see the trouble I have gone through.’ ‘Then you have known trouble, poor child, as well as I?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, shivering; ‘plenty! Please don’t speak of it.’ ‘And why are you going out to New Zealand? Have you friends there? What do you expect to do?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘But, good heavens! you cannot land in a strange country without a protector, or a home to go to--without any plans, or visible means of subsistence. Miss Hetherley, forgive me, but--’ ‘Pray--_pray_ don’t call me by that name,’ she interposed fearfully. ‘You don’t know--there might be people on board--you never can tell.’ ‘Miss Douglas, then; but how can I address you by a name that is not yours? I shall be constantly forgetting. Let me call you _Iris_. I would not be presumptuous, but I have thought and dreamt of you by that name ever since we parted. May I call you so now?’ ‘As you will, Mr Blythe.’ ‘Then, Iris, tell me all your troubles.’ ‘Oh, I cannot!’ she said, shrinking backward. ‘You do not know.’ ‘But I cannot help guessing. I guess, from finding you here, that you are not rich. I guess, from the few words you have uttered, that you are lonely and unhappy. I can see for myself that you are ill. Iris! can I be your friend and stand by in silence and make no effort to help you? Let me speak to you openly once more. It is five years since we parted, but not a feeling of my heart has changed since then. Cannot you trust me to be true and faithful to your interests now? I have had very little consolation during those five years. You denied me the greatest happiness of my life, and I submitted to your decree. But you can in a measure console me now. Confide your troubles to me, and let me help to bear them with you. How long have you been a widow?’