"I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which was so dear to her remembrance--"I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell for ever. Since you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall leave England as soon as I may go." The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. "Oh, Edward," she said, "why do you bid me farewell? Do you not think that I love you still?" "Still, Violet? You love _me_, the ruined, dishonourable, disgraced-- the--" She would not hear the dreadful word, but laid her finger on his lip. "Oh, hush, Edward! Those words are not for you. You may have sinned; they tell me you _have_ sinned. But have you not repented too, Edward? Have the lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing? I am sure they have. I could not wed one who was living an evil life, but now I see your true self once more." "Then you love me still?" The words were uttered in astonishment, and the emotions of unexpected joy almost overpowered him. "I never ceased to love you, Edward. Do you think that I am one to trifle with your heart, or to use it as a plaything for me to triumph by? Never, never. Had you died, or worse still, had you continued in sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you, though we might have been separated until death. But now I read other things in your face, Edward, and I will be yours--your betrothed--again. Come, let us join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome you with joy." "Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment," he cried, as she rose up; "let me realise the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let me sit here, Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch of your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may recover strength again." They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both recurred to that other scene where they had sat on the great boulder under the shadow of the Alps, and watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on the golden summer eve. It was the same love that still filled their souls--the same love, but more sober, more quiet, more like the love of maturer years, less like the passionate love of boy and girl. It was more of an autumnal love than of old; and if the departing summer had flung new hues over the forest and the glen, they were the duller hues that recalled to mind the greater glory of the past. It was round a dying year that Autumn was "folding his jewelled arms." Yet they were happy--very happy, and they felt that, come what might, nothing on earth could part them now.