"I am going to begin all over again!" I go on, eagerly, speaking very quickly, with my arms clasped about his neck, "quite all over again; indeed I am! I shall be so different that you will not know me for the same person, and if--if--" (beginning to falter and stumble)--"if you still go on liking _her_ best, and thinking her prettier and pleasanter to talk to--well, you cannot help it, it will not be your fault--and I--I--will try not to mind!" He has taken my hands from about his neck, and is holding them warmly, steadfastly clasped in his own. "Child! child!" he cries, "shall I _never_ undeceive you? are you still harping on that old worn-out string?" "_Is_ it worn out?" I ask, anxiously, staring up with my wet eyes through the deep twilight into his. "Yes, yes!" (going on quickly and impulsively), "if you say so, I will believe it--without another word I will believe it, but--" (with a sudden fall from my high tone, and lapse into curiosity)--"you know you must have liked her a good deal once--you know you were engaged to her." "_Engaged to her?_" "Well, _were not_ you?" "I never was engaged to any one in my life," he answers with solemn asseveration; "odd as it may seem, I never in my life had asked any woman to marry me until I asked you. I had known Zéphine from a child; her father was the best and kindest friend ever any man had. When he was dying, he was uneasy in his mind about her, as she was not left well off, and I promised to do what I could for her--one does not lightly break such a promise, does one? I was fond of her--I would do her any good turn I could, for old sake's sake, but _marry_ her--be _engaged_ to her!--" He pauses expressively. "Thank God! thank God!" cry I, sobbing hysterically; "it has all come right, then--Roger!--Roger!"--(burying my tear-stained face in his breast)--"I will tell you _now_--perhaps I shall never feel so brave again!--do not look at me--let me hide my face; I want to get it over in a hurry! Do you remember--" (sinking my voice to an indistinct and struggling whisper)--"that night that you asked me about--about _Brindley Wood_?" "Yes, I remember." Already, his tone has changed. His arms seem to be slackening their close hold of me. "Do not loose me!" cry I, passionately; "hold me tight, or I can _never_ tell you--how could you expect me? Well, that night--you know as well as I do--I _lied_." "You _did_?" How hard and quick he is breathing! I am glad I cannot see his face. "I _was_ there! I _did_ cry! she _did_ see me--" I stop abruptly, choked by tears, by shame, by apprehension. "Go on!" (spoken with panting shortness).