“Why, I heard that you were going to marry Charlotte Benson.  Is it true?”

I had pushed away the pile of photographs from me, and had looked up at him when I began, but my voice and courage rather failed before the end, and my eyes fell.  There was a silence—­a silence that seemed to stifle me.

“Why do you ask me that question?” he said, at last, in a low voice.  “Do you believe I am, yourself?”

“No,” I cried, springing up, and going over to his side.  “No, I don’t believe it.  Tell me it isn’t true, and promise me you won’t ever, ever marry Charlotte Benson.”

The relief was so unspeakable that I didn’t care what I said, and the joy I felt showed itself in my face and voice.  I put out my hand to him when I said “promise me,” but he did not take it, and turned his head away from me.

“I shall not marry Charlotte Benson,” he said; “but I cannot understand what difference it makes to you.”

It was now my turn to be silent, and I shrank back a step or two in great confusion.

He raised his head, and looked steadily at me for a moment, and then said: 

“Pauline, you did a great many things, but I don’t think you ever willingly deceived me.  Did you?”

I shook my head without looking lip.

“Then be careful what you do now, and let the past alone,” he said, and his voice was almost stern.

I trembled, and turned pale.

“Women sometimes play with dangerous weapons,” he said; “I don’t accuse you of meaning to give pain, but only of forgetting that some recollections are not to you what they are to me.  I never want to interfere with any one’s comfort or enjoyment; I only want to be let alone.  I do very well, and am not unhappy.  About marrying, now or ever, I should have thought you would have known.  But let me tell you once for all:  I haven’t any thought of it, and shall not ever have.  It is not that I am holding to any foolish hopes.  It would be exactly the same if you were married, or had died.  It simply isn’t in my nature to feel the same way a second time.  People are made differently, that is all.  I’m very well contented, and you need never let it worry you.”

He was very pale now, and his eyes had an expression I had never seen in them before.

“Richard,” I said, faintly, “I never have deceived you:  believe me now when I tell you, I am sorry from my heart for all that’s past.”

“You told me so before, and I did forgive you.  I forgave you fully, and have never had a thought that wasn’t kind.”

“I know it,” I said.  “But you do not trust me—­you don’t ever come near me, or want to see me.”

“You do not know what you are talking of,” he answered, turning from me.  “I forgive you anything you may have done at any time to give me pain.  I will do everything I can to serve you, in every way I can; only do not stir up the past, and let me forget the little of it that I can forget.”