She was determined to see him again before she went, and to tell him that she acquitted him;--that she knew the greater fault was not with him. This in itself would not comfort him; but she would endeavour so to put it that he might draw comfort from it. "I must see you for a moment alone, before I go," she said to him that evening in the drawing-room. "I go very early on Thursday morning. When can I speak to you? You are never up early, I know." "But I will be to-morrow. Will you be afraid to come out with me before breakfast?" "Oh no! she would not be at all afraid," she said: and so the appointment was made. "I know you'll think me very foolish for giving this trouble," she began, in rather a confused way, "and making so much about nothing." "No man thinks there is much ado about nothing when the ado is about himself," said Bertram, laughing. "Well, but I know it is foolish. But I was unjust to you yesterday, and I could not leave you without confessing it." "How unjust, Adela?" "I said you had cast Caroline off." "Ah, no! I certainly did not do that." "She wrote to me, and told me everything. She wrote very truly, I know; and she did not say a word--not a word against you." "Did she not? Well--no--I know she would not. And remember this, Adela: I do not say a word against her. Do tell her, not from me, you know, but of your own observation, that I do not say one word against her. I only say she did not love me." "Ah! Mr. Bertram." "That is all; and that is true. Adela, I have not much to give; but I would give it all--all--everything to have her back--to have her back as I used to think her. But if I could have her now--as I know her now--by raising this hand, I would not take her. But this imputes no blame to her. She tried to love me, but she could not." "Ah! she did love you." "Never!" He almost shouted as he said this; and as he did so, he stood across his companion's path. "Never! She never loved me. I know it now. What poor vile wretches we are! It is this I think that most torments me." And then they walked on. Adela had come there expressly to speak to him, but now she was almost afraid to speak. Her heart had been full of what it would utter, but now all utterance seemed to have left her. She had intended to console, but she did not dare to attempt it. There was a depth, almost a sublimity about his grief which kept her silent. "Oh! Adela," he said, "if you knew what it is to have an empty heart--or rather a heart not empty--that would fain be empty that you might again refill it. Dear Adela!" And he put out his hand to take her own. She hardly knew why, but she let him take her hand. "Dear Adela; have you never sighed for the comfort of an empty heart? You probe my wounds to the bottom; may I not search your own?"