“Anne, child, yes; the dream shall go by! But my dream, which was truly a dream; not your reality,” said Richard, gently taking her hands and drawing her head on his shoulder. “Cry here, faithful true Anne, for I am Richard, your brother. But never Richard, your husband! Nothing this world could offer me, nothing that you could say, would make me marry you, dearest of all women! Consider for a moment: you who are so honourable, so eager to uphold the honour of Kit, whom you love, would you have me marry one whom I knew loved and wanted someone else? Would you? It is beyond possibility. It is best for us both that we never again remotely approach to a suggestion that this might be possible. I tell you again what I have already told you: I am profoundly grateful to little Anne Berkley for averting the horrible tragedy, the dreadful mistake I came near making. Sooner or later I should have found you out, dear, and I’m not sure that I shouldn’t have died of it! So let us be thankful that I was one of little Anne’s beetles and that she set me on my feet to run away in time! Now it is all settled, dear one, and we are tired. I am going into the house. Don’t come just now, Anne.” Richard arose unsteadily, at the end of his endurance, exhausted by his effort. Anne looked up at him with the wet eyes of a chastised child. “Mayn’t I work for you? Oh, I can’t! Oh, Richard, let me marry you and work for you!” she begged. “The forbidden subject so soon!” Richard held up a rebuking hand. “There is no work; I shall not work for a long time. The play is done; your play that you made. Don’t you think we would better send for Wilberforce?” “Oh, yes; surely he must come! Will you send for him, or shall I?” Anne cried, eagerly. “I’ll telegraph him when I go into the house,” said Richard. “Go now, and try to rest, dear. It has been a cruel afternoon for you. Why not go to Joan Paul and get her to take you in? You should not be alone in a boarding-house. And, Anne, one last word! You spoke of forgiving you a few moments ago; surely you know that there is not the least thing to forgive? You have been so true, so fine, so kind that all my life I shall have you before my eyes, the ideal woman who quite simply, at any cost, does what is right, not what is pleasantest, easiest. That is rare, my child, in man or woman, and I’m grateful to have known you. And remember, Anne, the sooner I hear that you are happy, the sooner I shall throw off my sense of guilt for having been so dull as to accept your mercy upon a blind man.” Richard bent and took Anne’s hands in his, laying them, palms upward, in his own hands. He kissed first one then the other cold little palm and closed the fingers over the kisses, as one plays with a child. “That is your freedom, in your own hands, dear, and good-bye,” he said.