"And all these years you have--remembered me?" she says, faintly, shyly, not daring to lift her eyes to the grave, noble face. "Yes," he says simply. "There is nothing so wonderful in that. You were the real love of my life, though you would not believe it." Her heart throbs quickly; the colour comes and goes in her face. She is silent for very joy, for very shame. She feels so unworthy of this great, true, steadfast love, that she so scorned once, that she had flung back at his feet in the bygone years because another had shared, or seemed to share it, before herself. "You are not offended, I hope?" he says presently. He cannot see the tears that shine on her lashes; he only knows she is very quiet and calm, and fears that his words were too bold. "No. Why should I be?" she says tremulously. "You did not believe in me then," he goes on. "Not that I blame you, or indeed have ever blamed you. When a man loves a woman as I loved you, he loves her with not only admiration for her beauty, but reverence for the richer possibilities of the nature into which he has gained an insight. I knew you were proud, and pure, and true, and I knew that in all my life I should think of no other woman as I had thought of you. I was right, you see." Again she was silent. Her heart beats so fast, its quick throbs almost frighten her, what does he mean! Can it be---- His voice breaks across the tumult of her thoughts. "You said once you would never forgive me," he says softly. "I should not like you to know how those words troubled me: how again and again they would ring in my ears in some scene of danger, at some moment when Death and I have nearly shaken hands. At such times it seemed to me impossible that I would ever again be in your presence, or voluntarily seek it. Yet, strange to say, I have done both. Fate led me to you when I knew nothing of where I was going, and I find myself wondering if Time has softened your memory of the wrong I did you once, if ever you could find it in your heart to say the words I prayed for then, 'I forgive.'" The tears spring to her eyes. The old remembered music of his voice seems to thrill her with joy and pain. "Do you think me so hard, so cold?" she falters. "Long, long ago, I have forgiven!" "And you knew I was--free?" The warm colour sweeps over her face. Her eyes are hidden from his eager gaze. "Yes," she says softly. "And the past, is it all over?" he says, very low, as he leaves his chair and bends towards her. "Do you still think I willingly deceived you?" "It would have been kinder, wiser, had you told me the truth at first," she says somewhat faintly. In the darkness of that shadowy room, with the sense of his presence, with the rich music of his voice thrilling her heart with the long-vanished gladness of other days, she feels strangely, unutterably happy. It makes her almost afraid.