“‘Oh, Jack, Jack! you hurt me!’ Never was anything so sweet and tender. Her great eyes--like Madam Wynne’s that were--filled and ran over. ‘Oh, Jack!’ she cried, ‘must I hurt you too, and is it my fault? Oh my dear Jack, whom I love and honour, I can’t love you this way. I can’t--I can’t. And I am sorry. I must marry Arthur Wynne; I have promised. You men think we women give our hearts lightly, and take them again, as if they were mere counters; and I am troubled, Jack, and no one knows it. I must not talk of that. I wish you would all go away. I can’t marry you all.’ And she began to be agitated, and to laugh in a way that seemed to me quite strange and out of place; but then I know little about women. “I could but say: ‘Forgive me; I have hurt you whom I love. I will never do it more--never. But, dear Darthea, you will let me love you, because I cannot help it, and this will all be as if it had never been. To hurt you--to hurt you of all the world! I had no right to ask you.’ “‘Don’t,’ she said, with a great sob, which seemed to break my heart. “‘Darthea,’ I said--‘Darthea, do not marry that man! He is cruel; he is hard; he does not love you as my Hugh loves you.’ “‘Sir,’ she said, with such sudden dignity that I was overcome, and fell back a pace, ‘I am promised; let that suffice. It is cold; let us go in. It is cold--it is cold!’ “I had never seen her like this. I said: ‘Certainly; I should not have kept you. I was thoughtless.’ And as she said nothing in reply, I went after her, having said my say as I never intended, and more than was perhaps wise. At the door she turned about, and, facing me, said abruptly, with her dear face all of a flush: ‘Do not let this trouble you. I am not good enough to make it worth while. I have been a foolish girl, discontented with our simple ways, wanting what I have not. I have cried for toys, and have got them, and now I don’t care for them; but I have promised. Do you hear, sir? I have promised--I have promised.’ “She stayed for no answer, but went in. It seemed to me a singular speech, and to mean more than was said. The repeating of one phrase over and over appeared meant to reinforce a doubtful purpose. I think she cares little for Mr. Arthur Wynne, but who can say? Darthea is full of surprises. “Can it be that she loves Hugh and knows it not, or that she has such a strong sense of honour that it is hard for her to break her word? She does not believe this man to be bad. That is sure. If ever I can make her see him as I see him, he will hold her not an hour. I shall disturb her life no more. Had she taken me to-day, I know not what would have come of it. I am not strong of will, like Hugh. God knows best. I will ask no more.” I was an old man when I, Hugh Wynne, read these pages, and I am not ashamed to say they cost me some tears.