“Oh, thank God!  Thank God!” I cried; then covering my face with my hands, sank back into my seat, and burst into tears.

He turned from me and walked to the other end of the room; each of us lived much in that little time.

For myself, I had accepted my bondage so meekly, so dutifully, that I did not know the weight it had been upon me till it was suddenly taken off.  I did not think of him—­I could only think, there was no next Wednesday, and I could stay where I was.  It was like the sudden cessation of dreadful and long-continued pain:  it was Heaven.  I was crying for joy.  But at last the reaction came, and I had to think of him.

“Oh, Richard,” I cried, going toward him, (he was sitting by the window, and his hand concealed his eyes.) “I don’t know what you think of me, I hope you can forgive me.”

He did not speak, and I felt a dreadful pang of self-reproach.

“Richard,” I said, crying, and taking hold of his hand, “I am ashamed of myself for being glad.  I will marry you yet, if you want me to.  I know how good you have been to me.  I know I am ungrateful and abominable.”

Still he did not speak.  His very lips were white, and his hand, when I touched it, did not meet mine or move.

“You are angry with me,” I cried, bursting into a flood of tears.  “Oh, how you ought to hate me.  Oh, I wish we had never seen each other.  I wish I had been dead before I brought you all this trouble.  Richard, do look at me—­do speak to me.  Don’t you believe that I am sorry?  Don’t you know I will do anything you want me to?”

He seemed to try to speak—­moved a little, as a person in pain might do, but, bending his head a little lower on his hand, was silent still.

“Richard,” I said, after several moments’ silence, speaking thoughtfully—­“it has all come to me at last.  I begin to see what you have been to me always, and how badly I have treated you.  But it must have been because I was very young, and did not think.  I am sure my heart was not so bad, and I mean to be different now.  You know I have not had any one to teach me.  Will you let me try and make you happy?”

“No, Pauline,” he said at last, speaking with effort.  “It is all over now, and we will never talk of it again.”

I was silent for many minutes—­standing before him with irresolution.  “If it was right for me to marry you before,” I said at last, “Why is it not right now, if I mean to do my duty?”

“No, it is no longer right, if it ever was,” he answered.  “I will not take advantage of your sense of duty now, as I was going to take advantage of your necessity before.  No, you are free, and it is all at an end.”

“You are unjust to yourself.  You were not taking advantage of my necessity.  You were saving me, and I am ashamed of myself when I think of everything.  Oh, Richard, where did you learn to be so good!”

A spasm of pain crossed his face, and he turned away from me.