The strange charge made Antony start, struck the blood into his face, and set his heart beating wildly. He walked quickly to the front of the house; and his eyes immediately fell on the slight, black-robed figure of his wife. Rose had heard his approaching footsteps, and had stood up to meet her fate. Her head was bare, her hands dropped, but her eyes gazed straight at him. And there was a look in them, and in the thin, pathetic face, that melted Antony's heart to tears. He went towards her with open arms; but she lifted her hands, palms outward, and cried: "Oh, Antony! Let me say I am sorry, before you forgive me. So sorry! so ashamed of the past! I have been nearly dead with shame and grief! Can you forgive me? Will it be right to forgive me?" "My dear one, I have forgot it all." "No, no! You must first think of it all--think of everything I did wrong--of every scornful word and act, of every unkindness, of every time I made you ashamed of me. Is it right to forgive me? For I am not good, I am only trying to be good; and perhaps I shall fail very often. But God has spoken to me; and men and women have punished me on every hand; and I love you. Yes, I love you so much, Antony, that if you send me away I shall die of love and grief." "You love me?" "Yes, I love you." "Then, my dear Rose, that is enough for all. We will bury every sad memory in love. Forgive all for love. Trust all to love." So he gathered her to his heart, and kissed the tears off her eyes, and the love off her lips; and said to her with sweet solemnity: "My darling Rose, this is our real marriage. Oh, my wife! My dear wife! My dear, dear, dear wife!"