I shook my head without looking lip. "Then be careful what you do now, and let the past alone," he said, and his voice was almost stern. I trembled, and turned pale. "Women sometimes play with dangerous weapons," he said; "I don't accuse you of meaning to give pain, but only of forgetting that some recollections are not to you what they are to me. I never want to interfere with any one's comfort or enjoyment; I only want to be let alone. I do very well, and am not unhappy. About marrying, now or ever, I should have thought you would have known. But let me tell you once for all: I haven't any thought of it, and shall not ever have. It is not that I am holding to any foolish hopes. It would be exactly the same if you were married, or had died. It simply isn't in my nature to feel the same way a second time. People are made differently, that is all. I'm very well contented, and you need never let it worry you." He was very pale now, and his eyes had an expression I had never seen in them before. "Richard," I said, faintly, "I never _have_ deceived you: believe me now when I tell you, I am sorry from my heart for all that's past." "You told me so before, and I did forgive you. I forgave you fully, and have never had a thought that wasn't kind." "I know it," I said. "But you do not trust me--you don't ever come near me, or want to see me." "You do not know what you are talking of," he answered, turning from me. "I forgive you anything you may have done at any time to give me pain. I will do everything I can to serve you, in every way I can; only do not stir up the past, and let me forget the little of it that I can forget." I burst into tears, and put my hands before my face. "What is it?" he said, uneasily. "You need not be troubled about me." Seeing that I did not stop, he said again, "Tell me: is it that that troubles you?" I shook my head. "What is it, then? Something that I do not know about? Pauline, you are unhappy, and yet you've everything in the world to make you happy. I often think, there are not many women have as much." "The poorest of them are better off than I," I said, without raising my head. "Then you are ungrateful," he said, "for you have youth, and health, and money, and everybody likes you. You could choose from all the world." "No, I couldn't," I exclaimed, like a child; "and everybody doesn't like me,"--and then I cried again, for I was really in despair, and thought he meant to put me away, memory and all. "Well, if that's your trouble," he said, with a sigh, "I suppose I cannot help you; but I'm very sorry." "Yes, you _can_ help me," I cried imploringly, forgetting all I ought to have remembered; "if you only would forgive me, really and in earnest, and be friends again--and let me try--" and I covered my face with my hands.