Then he came back trying to be calm and self-possessed. "Hester," he said, "you told me the same when you came home, but I do not see any difference it has made. We are no better than we were." I was growing sick, sick to the very heart--but it was not in my nature to throw myself at his feet. "Yes," I exclaimed, "but it is not my fault now--it is not _my_ fault! Why do you leave everything to me?" Once more he started, and made a desperate effort to be calm. He saw the crisis had come as well as I did, and like me had no moderation, no composure, to bring to it. He tried hard again to return to an indifferent subject, to put the passion and the earnestness away. "I will leave nothing to you, Hester, in which I can help you," he said, with a voice which faltered in spite of himself; "Why do you agitate yourself and me with these vain discussions? you know very well that I shall thank you heartily for asking my assistance." "Yes," I cried, "you thank me a great many times--you thank me always--you make everything bitter to me by your gratitude. Thanks, thanks! you should keep them for strangers. Why do you thank _me?_" I had meant to humble myself--to the very dust if that was needful--and now in bitterness, feeling my repentance rejected, I was only falling into an angry despair instead,--but the two things were not so different after all. He was roused at least,--at last--out of all further possibility of self-control. He paced about the room, keeping himself down, keeping back the words from his lips. Then he paused for an instant before me. "I thank you because you are kind," he said abruptly; "because--do you think I am so blind that I cannot see all the pains you take for me? I know very well the efforts you make--am I wrong to thank you for that?" "Kind!" what a word! I echoed it sharply, with a positive cry of pain and injury. I was _kind_ to him! It was come to that. He turned upon me sharply, too; he also exclaimed with impatience. "What can I say?--what would you have me to say? Other standing-ground seems lost between us--how am I to speak to you? What do you want?" I felt the air darkening round me as if I was about to faint; but, with a great effort, recovered myself. "I want to speak to you," I said low and quick, with a feeling that it was not I that spoke, but only my voice. "I have not rested since you left home. I have been waiting for you, longing for you, ever since you went away. I have something to say to you, Edgar! No--Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!" I cried, carried on far before my thoughts by a passion not to be repressed, "it is not a stranger I have come to. I want to consult my husband. I want _you_, Harry,--you whom I have lost so long!"