"Of course I do. I am not asking you to break your engagement. I am simply telling you that in spite of that engagement I love you as well as I did love you before you had made it. I have a right to let you know the truth." As if she had not known it without his telling it to her now! "It was here that I told you that I loved you. I now repeat it here; and will never come here again unless I may say the same thing over and over and over. That is all. We might as well go on now." But when he got up she sat down, as though unwilling to leave the spot. It was still winter, and the rock was damp with cold drippings from the trees, and the moss around was wet, and little pools of water had formed themselves in the shallow holes upon the surface. She did not speak as she seated herself; but he was of course obliged to wait till she should be ready to accompany him. "It is too cold for you to sit there," he said. "Come, Clara; I will not have you loiter here. It is cold and wet." "It is not colder for me than for you." "You are not used to that sort of thing as I am." "Will," she said, "you must never speak to me again as you spoke just now. Promise me that you will not." "Promises will do no good in such a matter." "It is almost a repetition of what you did before;--though of course it is not so bad as that." "Everything I do is bad." "No, Will:--dear Will! Almost everything you do is good. But of what use can it be to either of us for you to be thinking of that which can never be? Cannot you think of me as your sister,--and only as your sister?" "No; I cannot." "Then it is not right that we should be together." "I know nothing of right. You ask me a question, and I suppose you don't wish that I should tell you a lie." "Of course I do not wish that." "Therefore I tell you the truth. I love you,--as any other man loves the girl that he does love; and, as far as I know myself now, I never can be happy unless you are my own." "Oh, Will, how can that be when I am engaged to marry another man?" "As to your engagement I should care nothing. Does he love you as I love you? If he loves you, why is he not here? If he loves you, why does he let his mother ill-use you, and treat you with scorn? If he loves you as I love you, how could he write to you as he does write? Would I write to you such a letter as that? Would I let you be here without coming to you,--to be looked after by any one else? If you had said that you would be my wife, would I leave you in solitude and sorrow, and then send you seventy-five pounds to console you? If you think he loves you, Clara--" "He thought he was doing right when he sent me the money." "But he shouldn't have thought it right. Never mind. I don't want to accuse him; but this I know,--and you know; he does not love you as I love you." "What can I say to answer you?"