Long before that wedding day Madeline had discovered, by secret inquisition of her own heart, that the tender respect she felt lor James Forster was not yet love--not such love, at least, as blends the lives of man and woman in perfect sympathy and joy; and she would have given the world, therefore, if he had been content to remain what he had been--her friend, her brother, her benefactor. But seeing clearly that his happiness depended on the formation of a closer relationship, she, by slow degrees, was reconciled to the possibility. What weighed with her more than any other consideration was the thought of poor White’s last injunction. He had wished this union--had, indeed, enjoined it upon her--so that to shrink from fulfilling his fond request seemed selfish and ungrateful, and the more so as she remembered so vividly the noble and unselfish devotion of Forster during all the last years of poor White’s earthly struggle. So she consented, not without many secret tears and forebodings, for the shadow of her first cruel experience was still upon her, and she could not stifle the secret sense of shame. Before finally yielding her hand, however, she questioned Forster again, and more explicitly, concerning his secret interview with White, just before the latter’s death. ‘You wish me to be your wife,’ she said, ‘but are you sure that you know what you are asking? I feel quite an old woman, and I am not good enough to be your wife. Sometimes, even now, the old restless fit is on me, the old wicked wilfulness. I shall never bring happiness to any one, I am sure.’ ‘You are unjust to yourself. Dear Madeline, trust me. I will try to deserve your trust.’ Do you know that there are some things, some thoughts and acts, which seem to pollute the very air we breathe; to make the bright world hateful; to chill the very heart within us, like the touch of death? I feel like a girl who has been shrouded for the grave and who still exists, but who will never have the wholesome, happy life of good people. Do not ask me to marry. Choose some innocent girl, and give your love to her.’ ‘We cannot love as we will,’ said Forster, earnestly, ‘but as God wills; and I have given my love to you. Dearest, it is just because you have been unhappy that I yearn to bring you happiness; just because you have been wronged that I long to make amends. You must leave these sorrowful thoughts behind you; you must rise from the tomb of your dead grief, and live anew.’ ‘I cannot; it is too late.’ ‘Yet you are so young, so beautiful; and I love you so much.’ ‘I do not deserve such love.’ ‘You deserve far more than I can bring you.’ ‘Did Mr. White tell you what I had been? Do not turn away, but look me in the face--you see I am not afraid. What did he say to you? Tell me everything.’ ‘He told me that you had been deceived by a villain, who afterwards abandoned you. Dearest, he did you full justice--he knew that you were innocent, an angel deluded by a devil.’