"I have startled you too much," he said. "Don't make me feel that I was wrong to come. Don't be angry with me." She let him seat her in the chair and then he stood before her and waited for her to speak. "It was rather--sudden," she said, "but I am not--angry." There was a silence of a few seconds, because he was so moved by the new look her face wore that he could not easily command his voice and words. "Have you been ill?" he asked gently, at last. He saw that she made an effort to control herself and answer him quietly, but before she spoke she gave up even the effort. She did not try to conceal or wipe away the great tears that fell down her cheeks as she looked up at him. "No, I have not been ill," she said. "My father is dead." And as she uttered the last words her voice sank almost into a whisper. Just for a breath's space they looked at each other and then she turned in her chair, laid her arm on the top of it and her face on her arm, with a simple helpless movement. "He has been dead three months," she whispered, weeping. His own eyes were dim as he watched her. He had not heard of this before. He walked to the other end of the room and back again twice. When he neared her the last time he stopped. "Must I go away?" he asked unsteadily. "I feel as if I had no right here." But she did not tell him whether he must go or stay. "If I stay I must tell you why I came and why I could not remain away," he said. She still drooped against her chair and did not speak, and he drew still nearer to her. "It does not seem the right time," he said, "but I must tell you even if I go away at once afterwards. I have never been happy an hour since we parted that wretched day. I have never ceased to think of what I had begun to hope for. I felt that it was useless to ask for it then--I feel as if it was useless now, but I must ask for it. Oh!" desperately, "how miserably I am saying it all! How weak it sounds!" In an instant he was kneeling on one knee at her side and had caught her hand and held it between both his own. "I'll say the simplest thing," he said. "I love you. Everything is against me, but I love you and I am sure I shall never love another woman." He clasped her hand close and she did not draw it away. "Won't you say a word to me?" he asked. "If you only tell me that this is the wrong time and that I must go away now, it will be better than some things you might say." She raised her face and let him see it. "No," she said, "it is not that it is the wrong time. It is a better time than any other, because I am so lonely and my trouble has made my heart softer than it was when I blamed you so. It is not that it is the wrong time, but-- "Wait a minute," he broke in. "Don't--don't do me an injustice!"