“And after what you have told me, it is only pain to stay near you.” “I know it,” she said; “terrible pain!” They were both silent now. She still clung to his hand, but was growing calmer. The storm of tears was ending in short, dry sobs; and she lifted her eyes to him with a look of such yearning tenderness, such humble deprecation, that his own eyes were flooded. “You will not hate me?” she said. “No, Anna. Heaven knows that is not in my power!” “And sometimes, when you are married to some lady——” “I shall not marry for many a long year, Anna.” “There is Miss Halstead!” “Hush! That name on your lips wounds me.” “You will marry her?” “Hush!” he said, “I cannot bear that.” “And when you are happy, sometimes think kindly of the poor girl who is not so very bad.” “Anna, I shall always think kindly of you. God forgive you that I cannot mingle respect with kindness!” “Then you think I have done very wrong?” “Yes; very, very wrong.” “Ah, me! How can I help it? Which way shall I turn? It is hard to be so young, with only a dear old grandmother to show you the right way.” “It is hard, poor child!” “And I have tried to do my best—indeed, I have.” “Tried and failed. Unhappy girl!” “Yes, I am an unhappy girl—so unhappy that I sometimes think there never was a creature so wretched. Then I must not let her see it, or the boys—they have so little pleasure, you know; but they are affectionate, and will find me out; but not if I can help it.” She said all this in a low, dreary voice, that would have touched a heart of granite. Savage felt his resentment, his pride and his strength giving away. He would have given the world to take that young creature in his arms and weep over her. But it could not be. Her hands had fallen away from his unconsciously. She had covered her face with them. Savage turned from her and softly left the room; he had no heart to attempt another farewell. Anna felt the silence, and, looking up, saw that he was gone. She heard his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs. Quick as thought she snatched up her bonnet and shawl. She would not part with him so. If the whole world dropped from under her feet she would follow him. Down the stairs she went like a lapwing, wrapping the shawl about her as she ran. He walked swiftly, as men do when stung to quick motion by pain. She soon came up with him; but that moment a panic of shame seized her, and she lagged behind, growing fainter and fainter each moment. An impulse of self-preservation had sent her into the street. She could not part with him so. That proud woman had no right to ask it. She would follow him home. She would demand a release from her promise from that haughty woman in his presence, and tell him how she loathed that man Ward; that a thousand thousand worlds would not induce her to marry him. How could he believe it of her, even though she told it herself?