‘Yes, I do. I have seen not the error of my ideas, for I still believe them to be true and just in principle, but I have seen that a man may be utterly against them, and may yet be capable of very great things. I believe this of you. I shall be sorry if I ever hear of your rising and lifting your voice against these ideas that I believe in; but I shall try to think that my cause is not so important as a great many others, and----’ ‘But, will you give me a hearing now, while I tell you that my views have changed, too, as much as yours?’ ‘Have they? How?’ ‘I always did believe that the woman’s cause is man’s. I told you that, even when we most disagreed and least understood each other. During these two years in which I have lived alone, I have learned to feel that still more strongly. I have felt that no friend, no _man_, could give me the help and sympathy that I wanted; that no man, and no woman, pitted each against the other, could do any good, but that “the _twain together_ well might change the world.” I shall never uplift my voice against those theories of yours, never.’ ‘I am glad of that, very glad. It would have hurt me dreadfully; it would have seemed as if--it would have cut me up,’ said Helena. ‘How careful I shall have to be, as to what I say and do, now.’ ‘Because of what I have said? You have a larger public than me to think of. You must do what is right--you must say all that you know of the truth.’ ‘Helena, will you help me to try and discover what is right and true? I have been wondering for a fortnight whether you would, and sometimes I have dared to hope it. Have I been too bold?’ ‘You mean----’ said Helena, with trembling lips and a face which had suddenly grown pale. ‘I mean that for a year, for more, I have loved you unconsciously, Helena; that since I met you three weeks ago, I have known it to my very heart-depths. Will you help me? Will you be my wife?’ ‘You forget,’ said she, her face grown still paler, and its expression more pained; ‘you forget.’ ‘Forget what?’ he asked, surprised and chilled by the tone, yet unable to think that the expression in her eyes was one of indifference. ‘You forget whom you are asking to be your wife. You----’ ‘I am asking Helena Spenceley to be my wife. Who has a word to say against her?’ he asked, his face darkening. ‘You must remember that I am not alone,’ said Helena. ‘There is the past: my father, my brother; oh, it is not to be thought of--for you.’ ‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me that you do not love me, and will not marry me?’ he asked, taking her hand, and looking at her until she looked at him. ‘I would rather you said it straight out--I am waiting.’ ‘But I cannot say that,’ murmured Helena; ‘I do love you.’ ‘Then let the other things take care of themselves,’ said he pleadingly, for something in her face forbade him to draw her to him, or do anything more than plead.