"_You, Rosamond, you know it!_" he exclaimed, gazing fixedly at her. "It cannot be. You would never do as you have done." "But I do know it," she continued, taking both his hands in hers, and looking him steadily in the eye, by way of controlling him, should he be seized with a sudden attack, "I know exactly what it is, and though it will prevent me from being your wife, it will not prevent me from loving you just the same, or from living with you either. I shall stay here always--and--and--pardon me, Mr. Browning, but when you get furious, as you sometimes do, I can quiet you better than any one else, and it may be, the world will never need to know you're a _madman!"_ Mr. Browning looked searchingly into her innocent eyes, and then, in spite of himself, he laughed aloud. He understood why she should think him a madman, and though he repented of it afterward, he hastened to undeceive her now. "As I hope to see another day, it is not that," he said. "It is far worse than insanity; and, Rosamond, though it breaks my heart to say it, it is wicked for me to talk of love to you, and you must not remember what I said. You must crush every tender thought of me. You must forget me--nay, more--you must _hate_ me. Will you, Rosamond?" "No--no--no! she cried, and laying her face in his lap, she burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Leave me," he whispered, "or I _shall_ go mad, for I know I am the cause of this distress." There was decision in the tones of his voice, and it stilled the tumult in Rosamond's bosom. Rising to her feet, she said calmly: "I will go, but I cannot forget that you deceived me. You have wrung from me a confession of my love, only to throw it back upon me as a priceless thing." Not thus would he part with her, and grasping her arm, he began: "Heaven knows how much more than my very life I love you--"