“Never talk of love again, Lionel, unless you can believe that woman’s love has nothing of self in it; that it is above the world almost as much as the angels are; that it is self-sacrificing, meek, lowly--content to be trodden upon by the living idol which it sets up for worship. _This_ is _true_ woman’s love: in my love for you there was, indeed, the worldly leaven of pride; the inborn spirit of my race, I suppose. But for this I should have sunk under your neglect and withered and died. With pride came the desire for revenge; and the love that was scorned and neglected, I plucked it out of my heart, trampled upon it as _you_ had done, and in its place, Lionel, I planted Ambition. As fate would have it, your brother came in my way, and I am his wife. I have sworn to honour, love and obey him, and I _will_ to the end. His kindness, his devotion, have already made me deeply grateful to him; and love, the love of devoted friendship--not that passionate love of past days, but constant considerate love--will come with time. And now you know all my secret.” “You can never forgive me,” said Lionel; “I can never forgive myself.” “Just now I thought I could not, but I can forgive you, Lionel: I do with all my heart. Do you forgive me? I ought to have waited--I know all that meek and lowly love should have done--but my soul was on fire with my wrongs, my hopes were all cast to the winds; my mother, or rather Mrs. Somerton, taunted me with my folly, and I scarcely knew what I did.” “God bless you, Amy!--if there be aught to forgive, I forgive you freely. I was anxious that we should both understand each other; that there should be a mutual explanation, a reconciliation, Amy--a restoration of some little of that old love in which we may pray for each other as brother and as sister.”