“And,” with a slight tremor in his voice--“had forgotten _me_.” “Never!” she returned, with passionate energy. “Yes--you will, in time; perhaps not for two or three years--for you are not like other girls. I am your first lover--nothing can deprive me of that memory.” “No, nothing,” she admitted, almost in a whisper. “But, you know, they say a woman generally marries her _second_ love,” with a laborious effort to speak steadily. “How calmly you can discuss my lovers, and my future!” cried Honor, indignantly. “Oh, how hard you have become--how cold--how cruel!” “Cruel--if I am cruel--only to be kind,” he replied steadily. “For, years to come, you will thank me--and think----” “I think,” she interrupted, with a pitiful little gesture, “that when we meet so--seldom--scarcely ever--that you might be----” here her voice totally failed her. She had grown much paler, and her breath came quickly, as she tried to keep down a sob. Mark resisted a wild impulse to take her in his arms--and stooping, picked up the pup instead. “Your uncle got my letter?” he asked, in a cool formal tone. “Yes, and was dreadfully concerned; but he said you were a man of honour, and your views and his were identical--but--I don’t agree with them.” “You don’t agree with them! What do you mean?” “He told auntie, of course--and of course I insisted on her telling _me_. After all, it was my affair. I know the obstacle--I am ready to be your wife, just the same. As for poverty----” “Poverty,” he interrupted quickly, “is not the question! I have a little money of my own, and I could put my shoulder to the wheel and work for you, Honor. It is not that--it is that my future is overshadowed, my reason stalked, by an hereditary and implacable enemy. I have no right to drag another into the pit--and, please God, I never will! When I lived a smooth luxurious sort of life, in those days that seem years ago, I thirsted for some difficult task, something to do that would single me out and set me apart from other men. My task has been allotted to me; it is not what I desired----” “No!” interposed Honor, whose heart was fighting against her fate with a frenzy of despair. “Your task is to renounce everything--the world, and friends, and wealth, and _me_--and to bury yourself in these remote hills, with a crazy old gentleman who cannot realize the sacrifice. Don’t!” with an impatient gesture of her hand, “I know that _I_ am speaking as if _I_ were mad, and in my old foolish way. I know in my heart that you are doing what is right--that you could not do otherwise, and I--I am proud of you.” Then, as she looked into his haggard, altered face and miserable eyes, and caught a glimpse of the real Mark beneath his armour of stoicism--“But, oh, it is hard--it is hard----” she added, as she covered her face with her hands and wept.