"Why do you laugh, Allen?" asked Dora, scared by this cruel merriment. "Why do you not answer?" "I laugh because of the contrast between the joy of Nature and our own sorrows," he replied, turning his pale face towards her, "and I did not reply because I was thinking." "You heard what I said?" He took her hands within his own, and looked at her anguished face with a great love in his eyes. "I heard you, and I agree," said he softly. "God bless you for a good woman, Dora, for you have behaved nobly. Many a woman would have cast me off in scorn for my refusal to speak. But you are content to wait in hope. Alas, my darling!" he cried, with a burst of sorrow; "there is no hope; there never can be hope. You and I are parted as surely as though the one were following the other to the graveyard." "But, Allen, we have committed no sin. Why should we part?" "Because of the sins of others. Our trouble comes from the past, Dora, and it was that dead man who revealed it to me. Did I tell you what he said, you would agree with me that the only thing left to us is to kiss and part. But I dare not tell you; in mercy to yourself I spare you the burden of the secret which has made my life so bitter." "I know that you act in all kindness, Allen, but you are wrong. It would be better to tell me all, and let me share your troubles. I am strong; I can bear anything." "Not this, not this," replied Allen, releasing her hands and going to the door; "it would wreck your life, your happiness, as it has wrecked mine." "Happiness!" she said in a tone of despair; "I have done with that." "I hope not. Oh, my dear, I trust not. Time may bring you the content that I cannot give you. I accept your noble offer, Dora. Let us still continue our engagement, although we must rarely meet. But if you are wise, you will not seek to know the secret. It will bring you no good, only evil. For your own sake I keep silent. I can do no more; I can do no less." He paused at the door, looking at her sadly. She stood in the centre of the room, a quiet and sorrowful figure in her black dress. Allen returned, and kissed her twice on the forehead; then he left her under the same roof as the dead man, and passed out of her life--as he thought--for ever. CHAPTER VIII. THE WILL OF JULIAN EDERMONT. After that interview Allen came no more to the Red House. He was aware that his behaviour appeared shameful; for no other word was applicable to the conduct of a man who forsook a girl to whom he had been engaged a year, and refused to disclose the reason of such desertion. Yet he could act in no other way, for the bar to the marriage, as revealed by Edermont, was so insuperable and terrible that Allen could not bring himself to enlighten Dora on the subject. If things looked black against him, he would have to put up with the situation as best he could. But to justify his conduct by telling the truth--he could not do so. In mercy to herself he spared her that revelation.