“I do,” she answered with a great sobbing sigh.  Oh, there was nothing more for her to say; she could not entreat him now to let her teach him to love her.  She felt, with a sinking heart, that if he took her words for a refusal, and by no means a gentle one, it could not be wondered at.

Presently he said, still looking amazed and pale, for he was utterly unused to a woman’s tears, and as much agitated now in a man’s fashion as she was in hers,

“If I have spoken earlier in your widowhood than you approve, and it displeases you, I hope you will believe that I have always thought of you as a wife to be admired above any that I ever knew.”

“My husband loved me,” she answered, drying her eyes, now almost calmly.  She could not say she was displeased on his account, and when she looked up she saw that John Mortimer had his hat in his hand.  Their interview was nearly over.

“I cannot lose you as a friend,” he said, and his voice faltered.

“Oh no; no, dear John.”

“And my children are so fond of you.”

“I love them; I always shall.”

He looked at her for a moment, doubtful whether to hold out his hand.  “Forget this, Emily, and let things be as they have been heretofore between us.”

“Yes,” she answered, and gave him her hand.

“Good-bye,” he said, and stooped to kiss it, and was gone.

She stood quite still listening, and yet listening, till all possible chance was over of catching any longer the sound of his steps.  No more tears; only a great aching emptiness.  The unhoped-for chance had been hers, and she had lost it knowingly.  What else could she have done?

She scarcely knew how long she remained motionless.  A world and a lifetime of agitation, and thought, and passionate yearning seemed to stand between her and that brief interview, before, casting her eyes on the little velvet-covered table across which he had leaned to put it on her hand, she saw the splendid ring; sunbeams had found it out, and were playing on the diamond; he had forgotten it, and left it behind him, and there was the case on the floor.  It seemed to be almost a respite.

“We are to dine with Giles and Dorothea to-day, and meet him.  This morning’s work, then, is not irretrievable.  I can speak now to Dorothea, tell her what has occurred, and she will see that I have opportunity to return him this—­and—–­and things may end in his loving me a little, after all.  Oh, if they could—­if, indeed, he had not told me he did not.  He did not look in the least angry,—­only surprised and vexed when I rejected him.  He cares so little about me.”

She took up the ring, and in course of time went with her old aunt to dine at her brother’s house.  She knew John was aware that he was to meet her; she was therefore deeply disturbed, though perhaps she had no right to be surprised when Dorothea said—­

“We are so much disappointed!  John Mortimer has sent this note to excuse himself from coming back to dinner to-day—­or, indeed, coming here at all to-night.  He has to go out, it seems, for two or three days.”