“How can I forget?” she answered, despairingly. “And then,”--she lowered her voice,--“oh, I can’t tell you--all the time, at the back of my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might _die_. I used to lie awake at night, and, do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to _scorch_ me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing one can bring such things to pass?” she asked, looking at Broomhurst with feverishly bright eyes. “No? Well, I don’t know. I tried to smother it,--I _really_ tried,--but it was there, whatever other thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was _you_. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and well, and knew it was _John_, was _that it was too good to be true_. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn’t I? . . . Not to blame? Why, if it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t have died. The men say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face buried in his hands--just as I had seen him the day before. He didn’t trouble to be careful; he was too wretched.” She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillside path at the edge of which they were seated. Presently he came back to her. “Kathleen, let me take care of you,” he implored, stooping toward her. “We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come to me at once?” She shook her head sadly. Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. He threw himself down beside her on the heather. “Dear,” he urged, still gently, though his voice showed he was controlling himself with an effort, “you are morbid about this. You have been alone too much; you are ill. Let me take care of you; I _can_, Kathleen,--and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes you imagine you are in any way responsible for--Drayton’s death. You can’t bring him back to life, and--” “No,” she sighed, drearily, “and if I could, nothing would be altered. Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel _that_--it was all so inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant, my feeling toward him wouldn’t have changed. If he spoke to me he would say ‘my dear’--and I should _loathe_ him. Oh, I know! It is _that_ that makes it so awful.” “But if you acknowledge it,” Broomhurst struck in, eagerly, “will you wreck both of our lives for the sake of vain regrets? Kathleen, you never will.” He waited breathlessly for her answer. “I won’t wreck both our lives by marrying again without love on my side,” she replied, firmly. “I will take the risk,” he said. “You _have_ loved me; you will love me again. You are crushed and dazed now with brooding over this--this trouble, but--”