“But I will not allow you to take the risk,” Kathleen answered. “What sort of woman should I be to be willing again to live with a man I don’t love? I have come to know that there are things one owes to _one’s self_. Self-respect is one of them. I don’t know how it has come to be so, but all my old feeling for you has _gone_. It is as though it had burned itself out. I will not offer gray ashes to any man.” Broomhurst, looking up at her pale, set face, knew that her words were final, and turned his own aside with a groan. “Ah,” cried Kathleen, with a little break in her voice, “_don’t!_ Go away, and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am so sorry--so sorry to hurt you. I--” her voice faltered miserably; “I--I only bring trouble to people.” There was a long pause. “Did you never think that there is a terrible vein of irony running through the ordering of this world?” she said, presently. “It is a mistake to think our prayers are not answered--they are. In due time we get our heart’s desire--when we have ceased to care for it.” “I haven’t yet got mine,” Broomhurst answered, doggedly, “and I shall never cease to care for it.” She smiled a little, with infinite sadness. “Listen, Kathleen,” he said. They had both risen, and he stood before her, looking down at her. “I will go now, but in a year’s time I shall come back. I will not give you up. You shall love me yet.” “Perhaps--I don’t think so,” she answered, wearily. Broomhurst looked at her trembling lips a moment in silence; then he stooped and kissed both her hands instead. “I will wait till you tell me you love me,” he said. She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and she turned with swimming eyes to the gray sea and the transient gleams of sunlight that swept like tender smiles across its face. End of Project Gutenberg’s Stories by English Authors: Orient, by Various