“Well, ever since that moment I have loved him,” she said, simply. “I could not get him out of my mind. Oh! it was magnificent to see him struggling there for our lives with those fierce, strong horses, beating them back, mastering them little by little, and all the time quite cool and silent! But you have heard all about that, you do not want to hear the story again. Since that day I have never been able to think of any other man. I have had many offers, for I am rich, but I only laughed. The idea of marriage when he was in the world seemed wicked to me. It was because of him that I did not go back to South America. It was because he was an Englishman that I kept on coming to England and looking for him in all those places where Englishmen are mostly to be found. I have never missed a season in London since, and yet I do not care for London. It was just because of the chance of finding him there. It is three years ago now, but I have never despaired. I think that I must be something of a fatalist. I have said to myself that in the end we must meet again, and now you see although we have been living in this out-of-the-way spot, the time has come. There is something wonderful about it. Don’t you think so?” I bowed my head. The eagerness of her question demanded an affirmative. She sighed, softly, with an air of gentle satisfaction. “That is what I tell myself,” she continued. “It is wonderful. It must have been fate. I tell myself that, and it seems to me that fate which has brought us together could not now be so cruel as to interfere between us. And I love him, I love him so much!” She paused a moment and looked at me almost with pity. “You,” she said, thoughtfully--”you will never know the misery of it--or the happiness!” I smiled faintly, and without mirth. Poor girl! There was something terribly pathetic in her little confession. From the bottom of my heart I pitied her. “And Mr. Deville?” I asked, softly. Her face fell a little. The enthusiasm died away. Still she was hopeful. “I am not sure,” she said, looking away from me into the fire. “He is kind to me, and I think that he likes me--a little. He does not care for me as I do for him, of course,” she added, sadly. “Why should he? I have done nothing for him, and he has done so much for me. It has been all on one side. I have had no chance yet; but I could help him a little. I am rich, very much richer than any one thinks, and they say that, although he has a great house and lands, that he is very poor, and that he has heavy debts. I could pay them all off,” she declared, with a little note of triumph in her tone. “I have what would come in English money to nearly a million pounds. I should give it all to him, every penny. It would make him happy to pay off all his mortgages and old debts. Don’t you think so?” she asked, anxiously. “I daresay it might,” I answered, gravely. “I should think it certainly would.”