“Will,” she said, and though her voice shook uncontrollably every word was clear, “I hardly know how to say it.  You have always trusted me, always been true to me.  I think—­once—­you almost worshipped me.  But you’ll never worship me any more, because—­because—­I am unworthy of you.  Do you understand?  I was held back from the final wickedness, or—­or I shouldn’t be here now.  But the sin was there in my heart.  Heaven help me, it is there still.  There!  I have told you.  It—­was your right.  I don’t ask for mercy or forgiveness.  Only punish me—­punish me—­and then—­let me—­go!”

Voice and strength failed together.  Her limbs doubled under her, and she sank suddenly down at his feet, sobbing—­terrible, painful, tearless sobs that seemed to rend her very being.

Without a word he stooped and lifted her.  He was white to the lips, but there was no hesitancy about him.  He acted instantly and decidedly as a man quite sure of himself.

He carried her to the old charpoy by the window and laid her down.

Many minutes later, when her anguish had a little spent itself, she realised that he was kneeling beside her, holding her pressed against his heart.  Through all the bitter chaos of her misery and her shame there came to her the touch of his hand upon her head.

It amazed her—­it thrilled her, that touch of his; in a fashion it awed her.  She kept her face hidden from him; she could not look up.  But he did not seek to see her face.  He only kept his hand upon her throbbing temple till she grew still against his breast.

Then at length, his voice slow and deep and very steady, he spoke.  “Daisy, we will never speak of this again.”

She gave a great start.  Pity, even a certain measure of kindness, she had almost begun to expect; but not this—­not this!  She made a movement to draw herself away from him, but he would not suffer it.  He only held her closer.

“Oh, don’t, Will, don’t!” she implored him brokenly.  “For your own sake—­let me go!”

“For my own sake, Daisy,” he answered quietly,—­“and for yours, since you have come to me, I will never let you go again.”

“But you can’t want me,” she insisted piteously.  “Don’t be generous, Will.  I can’t bear it.  Anything but that!  I would rather you cursed me—­indeed—­indeed!”

His hand restrained her, silenced her.  “Hush!” he said.  “You are my wife.  I love you, and I want you.”

Tears came to her then with a rush, blinding, burning, overwhelming, and yet their very agony was relief to her.  She made no further effort to loosen his hold.  She even feebly clung to him as one needing support.

“Ah, but I must tell you—­I must tell you,” she whispered at last.  “If—­if you mean to forgive me, you must know—­everything.”

“Tell me, if it helps you,” he answered, and he spoke with the splendid patience that twenty weary months had wrought in him.  “Only believe—­before you begin—­that I have forgiven you.  For—­before God—­it is the truth.”