“Did not Mrs. Penniman tell you—did she not give you my message?” “She told me something, but I did not understand.” “I wish you would let _me_ tell you—let me speak for myself.” “I don’t think it is necessary,” said Catherine. “Not for you, perhaps, but for me. It would be a great satisfaction—and I have not many.” He seemed to be coming nearer; Catherine turned away. “Can we not be friends again?” he said. “We are not enemies,” said Catherine. “I have none but friendly feelings to you.” “Ah, I wonder whether you know the happiness it gives me to hear you say that!” Catherine uttered no intimation that she measured the influence of her words; and he presently went on, “You have not changed—the years have passed happily for you.” “They have passed very quietly,” said Catherine. “They have left no marks; you are admirably young.” This time he succeeded in coming nearer—he was close to her; she saw his glossy perfumed beard, and his eyes above it looking strange and hard. It was very different from his old—from his young—face. If she had first seen him this way she would not have liked him. It seemed to her that he was smiling, or trying to smile. “Catherine,” he said, lowering his voice, “I have never ceased to think of you.” “Please don’t say those things,” she answered. “Do you hate me?” “Oh no,” said Catherine. Something in her tone discouraged him, but in a moment he recovered himself. “Have you still some kindness for me, then?” “I don’t know why you have come here to ask me such things!” Catherine exclaimed. “Because for many years it has been the desire of my life that we should be friends again.” “That is impossible.” “Why so? Not if you will allow it.” “I will not allow it!” said Catherine. He looked at her again in silence. “I see; my presence troubles you and pains you. I will go away; but you must give me leave to come again.” “Please don’t come again,” she said. “Never?—never?” She made a great effort; she wished to say something that would make it impossible he should ever again cross her threshold. “It is wrong of you. There is no propriety in it—no reason for it.” “Ah, dearest lady, you do me injustice!” cried Morris Townsend. “We have only waited, and now we are free.” “You treated me badly,” said Catherine. “Not if you think of it rightly. You had your quiet life with your father—which was just what I could not make up my mind to rob you of.” “Yes; I had that.” Morris felt it to be a considerable damage to his cause that he could not add that she had had something more besides; for it is needless to say that he had learnt the contents of Dr. Sloper’s will. He was nevertheless not at a loss. “There are worse fates than that!” he exclaimed, with expression; and he might have been supposed to refer to his own unprotected situation. Then he added, with a deeper tenderness, “Catherine, have you never forgiven me?”