“It is,” he went on, not heeding her, “a question that you can settle with your conscience and your God. But I wish to tell you what it is that you have done. You have wrecked my life, and made it an unhappy thing; you have taken that from me which I can never have to give again; you have embittered my mind, and driven me to sins of which I should not otherwise have dreamed. I loved you, and you gave me proofs which I could not doubt that I had won your love. You let me love you, and then when the hour of trial came you deserted and morally destroyed me, and the great and holy affection that should have been the blessing of my life has become its curse.” Eva covered her face with her hands and sat silent. “You do not answer me, Eva,” he said presently, with a little laugh. “Perhaps you find what I have to say difficult to answer, or perhaps you think I am taking a liberty.” “You are very hard,” she said, in a low voice. “Had you not better wait till I have done before you call me hard? If I wished to be hard, I should tell you that I no longer cared for you, that my prevailing feeling towards you was one of contempt. It would, perhaps, mortify you to think that I had shaken off such heavy chains. But it is not the truth, Eva. I love you now, as I always have loved you, as I always shall love you. I hope for nothing, I ask for nothing; in this business it has always been my part to give, not to receive. I despise myself for it, but so it is.” She laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Spare me, Ernest,” she whispered. “I have very little more to say, only this: I believe all that I have given you has not been given uselessly. I believe that the love of the flesh will die with the flesh. But my love for you has been something more and higher than that, or how has it lived without hope, and in spite of its dishonour, through so many years? It is of the spirit, and I believe that its life will be like that of the spirit, unending, and that when this hateful existence is done with I shall in some way reap its fruits with you.” “Why do you believe that, Ernest? It seems too happy to be true.” “Why do I believe it? I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is nothing but the fantasy of a mind broken down with brooding on its grief. In trouble we grow towards the light—like a plant in the dark, you know. As a crushed flower smells sweet, so all that is most aspiring in human nature is called into life when God lays His heavy hand upon us. Heaven is sorrow’s sole ambition. No, Eva, I do not know why I believe it—certainly you have given me no grounds for this—but I do believe it, and it comforts me. By the way, how did you know that I was here?” “I passed you on the Hoe this morning, walking with Dorothy.” Ernest started. “I felt you pass,” he said, “and asked Dorothy who it was. She said she did not know.” “She knew, but I made a sign to her not to say.” “Oh!” “Ernest, will you promise me something?” asked Eva, wildly. “What is it?”