"Yes," said Isabella; "I remember." "You hurt yourself, and cried, and said you hated me then. And I believe you did, for you have never been the same since. That was fourteen years ago, Isabella--my first year at Cambridge. You were eighteen then." "Yes," answered Isabella, in a chilly voice. "You have all your dates very correct, and a simple addition sum will tell you that I am thirty-two now--a middle-aged woman, whose hair is turning grey! Thirty-two!" And I was too stupid, or too wise, to tell her that she did not look it. "I do not know," I said instead, "why you should have turned against me then, and remembered so long a mere boyish jest; for I thought we were to be good friends always--as we had been--and never dreamt that a few hairpins could make us different." Isabella sat with her still, white hands clasped in her lap, and looked towards the gate that had caused this childish breach; but I could not see the expression on her face. "My father," I went on, determined to speak out that which was in my mind, "had no business to make such a will, which could only lead to trouble. And I should have been a scoundrel had I sacrificed your happiness to my own cupidity--or, rather, had I attempted to do so. You might have thought it your duty to take me, Isabella, had I asked you to, for the sake of the money--though you have always spared me any doubts as to your opinion of me. You have always known my faults, and been less charitable towards them than anyone else. I should have been a scoundrel indeed had I asked you to sacrifice yourself." She sat quite still, and was breathing quietly now. "So I came to talk it over with you--as old friends, as if we were two men." "Which we are not," put in Isabella, with her bitter laugh; and God knows what she meant. "We were placed in an impossible position by being thus asked to marry against our will. I did not ever think of you in that way--think of loving you, I mean. And you have made it plain enough, of course, that you do not love me. On the contrary--" "Of course," she echoed, in a queer, tired voice. "On the contrary." I somehow came to a stop, and sat mutely seeking words. At last, however, I broke the silence. "Then," I said, making an effort to speak lightly and easily, "we understand each other now."-- "Yes," she answered; "we understand each other now." I rose, for there seemed nothing more to be said, and yet feeling that I was no further on--that there was something yet misunderstood between us. "And we are friends again, Isabella." I held out my hand, and, after a momentary pause, she placed her fingers in it. They were cold.--"Yes, I suppose so," she said, and her lips were quivering.