But she did not weep, unless in a passing petulance because I asked what she could not give; and the clouds swept dark over my love's bright face. And now, alas, I am so wise that I cannot weep! I must rather smile to have asked, than lament that my asking was in vain. I must wonder at her patience in refusing kindly, and be no more amazed that she refused at last. Yet this sad wisdom that sits well on age I do not love in youth. I was a fool; but if to hold that good shall win and a true love prevail be folly, let my sons be fools after me until their sons in turn catch up from them the torch of that folly which illuminates the world. You would have said that she had not looked to see me, for she started as though in surprise when I stood before her, saying, "You sent for me." "I sent for you?" she cried, still as if puzzled; then, "Ah, I remember. A whim seized me as I passed your lodging. Yet you deserved no such favour, for you treated me very rudely--why, yes, with great unkindness--last time we met. But I wouldn't have you think me resentful. Old friends must forgive one another, mustn't they? Besides, you meant no hurt, you were vexed, perhaps you were even surprised. Were you surprised? No, you weren't surprised. But were you grieved, Simon?" I had been gazing dully at her, now I spoke heavily and dully. "You wear gems there on your neck," said I, pointing at the necklace. "Isn't the neck worthy?" she murmured quickly yet softly, pulling her dress away to let me see the better, and raising her eyes to mine. "Yes, very worthy. But wouldn't you be grieved to find them pebbles?" "By my faith, yes!" she laughed, "for I paid the price of gems for them." "I also paid the price of a gem," said I, "and thought I had it." "And it proved a pebble?" said she, leaning over me; for I had seated myself in a chair, being in no mood for ceremony. "Yes, a pebble; a very pebble, a common pebble." "A common pebble!" she echoed. "Oh, Simon, cruel Simon! But a pretty bright pebble? It looked like a gem, Simon?" "God forgive you, yes. In Heaven's name--then--long ago, when you came to Hatchstead--what then? Weren't you then----" "No gem," said she. "Even then a pebble." Her voice sank a little, as though for a single moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. "A common pebble," she added, echoing my words. "Then God forgive you," said I again, and I leant my head on my hand. "And you, good Simon, do you forgive me?" I was silent. She moved away petulantly, crying, "You're all so ready to call on God to forgive! Is forgiveness God's only? Will none of you forgive for yourselves? Or are you so righteous that you can't do what God must?" I sprang up and came to her. "Forgive?" I cried in a low voice. "Ay, I'll forgive. Don't talk of forgiveness to me. I came to love." "To love? Now?" Her eyes grew wide in wonder, amusement, and delight. "Yes," said I.