He took my hand and led me out, shutting the door noiselessly.  He took me across the hall, and into the parlor, where there was no light, except what came in from the hall.  There was a sofa opposite the door, and to that he led me, standing himself before me, with his perplexed and careworn face.  I was very silent for some time:  all that awful time in the library, I had never made a sound:  but suddenly, some thought came that reached the source of my tears, and I burst into a passion of weeping.  I am not sure what it was:  I think, perhaps, the sight of the piano, and the recollection of that magnificent voice that would never be heard again, Whatever it was, I bless it, for I think it saved my brain.  I threw myself down upon the sofa, and clung to Richard’s hand, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

Poor fellow! my tears seemed to shake him terribly.  Once he turned away, and drew his hand across his brow, as if it were a little more than he could bear.  But some men, like many women, are born to sacrifice.

He tried to comfort and soothe me with broken words.  But what was there to say?

“Oh, Richard,” I cried, “What does it all mean? why am I so punished? was it so very wicked to have loved him after I knew all?  Was all this allowed to come because I did that?  Answer me, tell me; tell me what you think.”

“No, Pauline, I don’t think that was it.  Don’t talk about it now.  Try to be quiet.  You are not fit to think about it now.”

“But, Richard, what else can it mean?  I know, I know that it is the truth.  God wouldn’t have sent such a punishment upon me if he hadn’t seen my sin.”

“It’s more likely He sent it to—­” and then he paused.

I know now he meant, it was more likely He had sent it to save me from the sins of others; but he had the holy charity not to say it.

“Oh,” I cried, passionately, “When all the sin was mine, that he should have had to die:  when he never came near me, never looked at me:  when he would rather die than break his word to me.  That night in the library, after he had told me all, he said, ’I will never look into your eyes again, I will never touch your hand;’ and though we were in the same room together after that, and in the same house all this time, and though he knew I loved him so—­he never looked at me, he never turned his eyes upon me; and I—­I was willing to sin for him—­to die for him.  I would have followed him to the ends of the earth, not twelve hours ago.”

“Hush, Pauline,” said Richard huskily, “you don’t know what you’re saying—­you are a child.”

“No, I’m not a child—­after to-day, after to-night—­I am not a child—­and I know too well what I say—­too well—­too well.  Richard, you don’t know what has been in my heart.  That night, he held me in his arms and kissed me—­when he said good-bye.  Then I was innocent, for I was dazed by grief and had not come to my senses, after what he told me.  But to-day I said—­to-day—­to have his arms around me once again—­to have him kiss me once again as he kissed me then—­I would go away from all I ever had been taught of right and duty, and would be satisfied.”