"I did not know that you were the author--you must believe that, Mr. Valchester! I should not have undertaken it had I only known!" she exclaimed, hurriedly and earnestly. He looked at her, the heavy sadness on his face deepening as he saw the lines of pain drawn around the delicate, scarlet lips. "Lina, were you so proud?" he asked. "I did not know it was pride," she said, simply. "I was only thinking that--that it were so much better if we had never met again." She did not know what a pathetic heart-cry there was in the words, but Ronald understood. He rose from his seat and before she could prevent him knelt humbly at her feet. "Lina, you are quite right," he said, "I tried to keep myself from coming, but I could not. Can you forgive me for inflicting this pain upon you?" She did not answer, and he took the white hand that hung listless by her side and pressed it to his lips. "I could not keep myself from coming," he repeated; "I could not still the fever and thirst of my heart. Last night I did not sleep one hour. The knowledge that you were alive and so near me almost maddened me with mingled joy and pain. Ah! Lina, my lost love, you must forgive me for coming this once. I meant to be brave and calm. I thought it might not pain you as it did me. I thought you might have learned not to care." The hot, passionate tears he could not repress, fell on her white hand, but she did not speak one word. There was nothing she could say. She had not "learned not to care." She knew that her heart was beating with a fierce, wild joy because she had met him again, but she knew and faced the knowledge with brave, uncomplaining silence, that when he passed out of her life again the unhealed wound in her heart would only bleed anew. "I thought you might have forgotten," he went on, out of his bitter anguish, "but I see now that you still remember." "I remember--all," she said, through white lips. "It was such a happy summer--it would not be easy to forget." "And it pains you to remember it," he said, reading her heart by the light of his own. She did not answer, but there came into her mind those sad words of Tennyson: "This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." She drew her hand from his clasp, and rose, pallid, beautiful, mournful, her rich and somber draperies rustling as she moved away from him. "Mr. Valchester, do not be angry, but it would be better for you if you would go," she said, bravely. "Better--for me?" he said, rising, and looking at her with haggard, weary eyes. "For us both, then," she answered with patient truthfulness, though the color rose for a moment to her cheek. "Not to see you again?" he said, questioningly.