I believe he loved the ground I walked on. Oh, it is _awful_ to be loved like that when you--” She drew in her breath with a sob. “I--I--it made me sick for him to come near me--to touch me.” She stopped a moment. Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her quivering one. “Poor little girl!” he murmured. “Then _you_ came,” she said, “and before long I had another feeling to fight against. At first I thought it couldn’t be true that I loved you--it would die down. I think I was _frightened_ at the feeling; I didn’t know it hurt so to love any one.” Broomhurst stirred a little. “Go on,” he said, tersely. “But it didn’t die,” she continued, in a trembling whisper, “and the other _awful_ feeling grew stronger and stronger--hatred; no, that is not the word--_loathing_ for--for--John. I fought against it. Yes,” she cried, feverishly, clasping and unclasping her hands; “Heaven knows I fought it with all my strength, and reasoned with myself, and--oh, I did _everything_, but--” Her quick-falling tears made speech difficult. “Kathleen!” Broomhurst urged, desperately, “you couldn’t help it, you poor child. You say yourself you struggled against your feelings. You were always gentle; perhaps he didn’t know.” “But he did--he _did_,” she wailed; “it is just that. I hurt him a hundred times a day; he never said so, but I knew it; and yet I _couldn’t_ be kind to him,--except in words,--and he understood. And after you came it was worse in one way, for he knew--I _felt_ he knew--that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog’s, and I was stabbed with remorse, and I tried to be good to him, but I couldn’t.” “But--he didn’t suspect--he trusted you,” began Broomhurst. “He had every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so--” “Hush!” she almost screamed. “Loyal! it was the least I could do--to stop you, I mean--when you--After all, I knew it without your telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn’t prevent his knowing that I hated him, I could prevent _that_. It was my punishment. I deserved it for _daring_ to marry without love. But I didn’t spare John one pang after all,” she added, bitterly. “He knew what I felt toward him; I don’t think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn’t reproach myself? When I went back to the tent that morning--when you--when I stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands; he was crying--bitterly. I saw him,--it is terrible to see a man cry,--and I stole away gently, but he saw me. I was torn to pieces, but I _couldn’t_ go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to be borne that he should do that--when I knew _you_ loved me.” “Kathleen,” cried her lover, again, “don’t dwell on it all so terribly--don’t--”