“Let me confess it, Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, “these letters are the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep them,--so help me Heaven, the hour of _your_ shame would be that of _my_ death,--but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours. I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am nothing to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone attaches me to existence.” “I cannot understand such reasonings,” said she, coldly. “These letters have no other value save the ruin they can work me. If not employed to that end, they might as well blacken in the fire or moulder into dust. You tell me you are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much to say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply injured _me_. Why, therefore, not give up what you own to be so useless?” “For the very reason I have given you, Loo; that, so long as I hold them, I have my interest in your heart, and you cannot cease to feel bound up with my destiny.” “And is not this vengeance?” asked she, quietly. “Can you picture to your mind a revenge more cruel, living on from day to day, and gathering force from time?” “But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come back again.” “Never--never!” said she, resolutely. “The man who has corrupted a woman's heart may own as much of it as can feel love for him; but he who has held up to shame the dishonor he has provoked must be satisfied with her loathing and her hate.” “And you tell me that these are my portion?” said he, sternly. “Your conscience can answer how you have earned them.” They walked along side by side in silence for some time, and at last she said, “How much better, for both of us, to avoid words of passion or remembrances of long ago.” “You loved me once, Loo,” broke he in, with deep emotion. “And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay you now, would you insult me for my poverty, or persecute me? I do not think so, Ludlow.” “And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?” said he, in deep agitation. “Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once lived in occupied by another,--a passing pang, perhaps, but no more.” “How you are changed, Loo!” cried he. “How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter! and the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our spring is past, Ludlow.” “But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” cried he, passionately. “Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know myself,” said she. “I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo,” said he, sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your life. Is it not so?”