“If you give me up,” I said timidly, “who will take care of me?”

“There will be plenty now,” he answered bitterly.

“There wasn’t anybody yesterday.”

“But there will be to-morrow.  No, Pauline,” he said, lifting his head and speaking in a firmer voice, “What I thought I was doing, till this showed me my heart, and how I had deceived myself, I will do now, even if it kills me.  I thought I was acting for your good, and from a sense of duty:  now that I know what is for your good, and what is my duty, I will go on in that, and nothing shall turn me from it, so help me Heaven.”

“At least you will forgive me,” I said, with tears, “for all the things that I have made you suffer.”

“Yes,” he said, with some emotion, “I shall forgive you sooner than I shall forgive myself.  I cannot see that you have been to blame.”

“Ah,” I cried, hiding my face with shame, when I thought of all my selfishness and indifference, and the return I had made him for his devoted love.  “I know how I have been to blame; and I am going to pay you for your goodness and care by breaking your heart for you—­by upsetting all your plans.  Oh, Richard!  You had better let it all go on!  Think how everybody knows about it!”

He shook his head.  “I don’t care a straw for that,” he said.  And I am sure he did not.

“No,” he said firmly, getting up, and walking up and down the room; “it is all over, and we must make the best of it.  I shall still have everything to do for you under the will; and while you mustn’t expect me to see you often, just for the present time, at least, you know I shall do everything as faithfully as if nothing had occurred.  You must write to me whenever you think my judgment or advice would do you any good.  And I shall be always looking after things that you don’t understand, and taking care of your interests, whether you hear from me or not.  You’ll always be sure of that, whatever may occur.”

“Oh,” I faltered, with a sudden frightened feeling of loneliness and loss, in the midst of my new freedom, “I can’t feel as if it were all over.”

“I don’t know how this terrible mistake about the will occurred,” he went on, without noticing what I said:  “it was only a—­mercy that I found it when I did.  It was between the leaves of a book, an old volume of Tacitus; I took it down to look at the title for the inventory, and it fell out.”

“That was the book he had in his hand when I saw him last, that night before he died.”

“Yes?  Then after you went up-stairs I suppose he was thinking of you, and he took out the will to read it over, and maybe left it out, meaning to lock it up again in the morning.”

“And in the morning he was not well,” I said, “and perhaps went away leaving it lying on the book; I remember, Ann said there were several papers lying on the table, when she arranged the room.”