I drew her hand down from her face and through my arm, for we had still to re-enter the outer cave, and to return through a higher gallery, before we could reach the cliffs above.  I did not glance at her.  The road was very rough, strewed with huge bowlders, and she was compelled to receive my help.  But we did not speak again till we were on the cliffs, in the eye of day, with our faces and our steps turned toward Tardif’s farm.

“Oh!” she cried, suddenly, in a tone that made my heart ache the keener, “how sorry I am!”

“Sorry that I love you?” I asked, feeling that my love was growing every moment in spite of myself.  The sun shone on her face, which was just below my eyes.  There was an expression of sad perplexity and questioning upon it, which kept away every other sign of emotion.  She lifted her eyes to me frankly, and no flush of color came over her pale cheeks.

“Yes,” she answered; “it is such a miserable, unfortunate thing for you.  But how could I have helped it?”

“You could not help it,” I said.

“I did not mean to deceive you,” she continued—­“neither you nor any one.  When I fled away from him I had no plan of any kind.  I was just like a leaf driven about by the wind, and it tossed me here.  I did not think I ought to tell any one I was married.  I wish I could have foreseen this.  Why did God let me have that accident in the spring?  Why did he let you come over to see me?”

“Are you surprised that I love you?” I asked.

Now I saw a subtle flush steal across her face, and her eyes fell to the ground.

“I never thought of it till this afternoon,” she murmured.  “I knew you were going to marry your cousin Julia, and I knew I was married, and that there could be no release from that.  All my life is ruined, but you and Tardif made it more bearable.  I did not think you loved me till I saw your face this afternoon.”

“I shall always love you,” I cried, passionately, looking down on the shining, drooping head beside me, and the sad face and listless arms hanging down in an attitude of dejection.  She seemed so forlorn a creature that I wished I could take her to my heart again; but that was impossible now.

“No,” she answered in her calm, sorrowful voice.  “When you see clearly that it is an evil thing, you will conquer it.  There will be no hope whatever in your love for me, and it will pass away.  Not soon, perhaps; I can scarcely wish you to forget me soon.  Yet it would be wrong for you to love me now.  Why was I driven to marry him so long ago?”

A sharp, bitter tone rang through her quiet voice, and for a moment she hid her face in her hands.

“Olivia,” I said, “it is harder upon me than you can think, or I can tell.”

She had not the faintest notion of how hard this trial was.  I had sacrificed every plan and purpose of my life in the hope of winning her.  I had cast away, almost as a worthless thing, the substantial prosperity which had been within my grasp, and now that I stretched out my hand for the prize, I found it nothing but an empty shadow.  Deeper even than this lay the thought of my mother’s bitter disappointment.