“If _your_ conscience can acquit you, Mr. Huyton, it is not necessary for me to recall unpleasant recollections. Do not let us discuss the subject.” “Forgiveness implies a sense of injury,” persisted he; “I have a right to know how I have incurred the charge.” “When we last parted,” said she, after a pause, looking at him with gentle eyes, “you asked earnestly and urgently to be considered as my friend. What have I done since, to cause this change in you; that now, when we are parting, perhaps for ever, you will not say one kindly word; will not bid me good speed, nor let me give you my good wishes?” “If my memory serves me rightly, you refused those urgent entreaties, you declined decidedly, the friendship which I offered. Am I to conclude that your refusal was insincere, and that you wished to keep me at your feet, even while you affected to repulse me?” “You are cruelly unjust, Mr. Huyton,” was her answer; “I told you that intercourse between us must cease, until――I am sure you must remember the condition――nor have I even now, when that condition is about to be fulfilled, the slightest wish to carry on the acquaintance; I only asked for an exchange of parting words; and my only wish now is, that you should leave me in peace. At least do not profane this spot with bitter words. I pray Heaven to bless you, and lead you to true happiness here and hereafter.” “Yes, the condition _is_ about to be fulfilled,” repeated he, as if in a dream; then starting, he said, with more animation; “and the fulfillment of this condition then meets your entire approbation?” He fixed his eyes on her with a piercing glance, under which she shrank and colored. “The choice you would not make yourself, you approve of for your friend, do you?” “If you think you can make Dora happy, Mr. Huyton, if that is your wish, your determination, all your friends and hers must approve of your choice.” “Happy!” repeated he, scornfully, “oh, yes! very happy; as happy as she deserves, and you know how much that is. Tell me now truly,” coming a step closer to her, “would you rather see the object of your idolatry, of your passionate devotion, happy with another, forgetful of your affection; or know her miserable, but constant at heart?” “Real, devoted affection must wish its object to be happy; it is a very selfish love which can endure no pleasure which it does not share,” said she, gravely. He seemed to be pondering her words, then answered: “That may be woman’s love; a man’s is different. I do not believe the man exists who would make such a choice.” “I know you are mistaken,” she said, and her looks told him where her thoughts had flown. “Answer me one other question,” said he; “I know you can not choose but answer sincerely. Tell me has my intended marriage occasioned you either pain or pleasure?”