“I have been very frank with you,” she continued.  “Indeed, why should I not be so?  People talk of a lady’s secret, but my secret has been no secret from you?  That I was made to tell it under—­under—­what I will call an error, was your fault, and it is that that has made us quits.”

“I know that I have behaved badly to you.”

“But then, unfortunately, you know also that I had deserved bad treatment.  Well, we will say no more about it.  I have been very candid with you, but then I have injured no one by my candor.  You have not said a word to me in reply; but then your tongue is tied by your duty to Miss Burton—­your duty and your love together, of course.  It is all as it should he, and now I will have done.  When are you to be married, Harry?”

“No time has been flied.  I am a very poor man, you know.”

“Alas! alas! yes.  When mischief is done, how badly all the things turn out.  You are poor and I am rich, and yet we can not help each other.”

“I fear not.”

“Unless I could adopt Miss Burton, and be a sort of mother to her.  You would shrink, however, from any such guardianship on my part.  But you are clever, Harry, and can work when you please, and will make your way?  If Miss Burton keeps you waiting now by any prudent fear on her part, I shall not think so well of her as I am inclined to do.”

“The Burtons are all prudent people.”

“Tell her, from me, with my love, not to be too prudent.  I thought to be prudent, and see what has come of it.”

“I will tell her what you say.”

“Do, please; and, Harry, look here.  Will she accept a little present from me?  You, at any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so.  Give her this—­it is only a trifle,” and she put her hand on a small jeweler’s box which was close to her arm upon the table, “and tell her—­of course she knows all our story, Harry?”

“Yes, she knows it all.”

“Tell her that she whom you have rejected sends it with her kindest wishes to her whom you have taken.”

“No, I will not tell her that.”

“Why not?  It is all true.  I have not poisoned the little ring, as the ladies would have done some centuries since.  They were grander then than we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, though more cruel.  You will bid her take it, will you not?”

“I am sure she will take it without bidding on my part.”

“And tell her not to write me any thanks.  She and I will both understand that that had better be omitted.  If, when I shall see her at some future time as your wife, it shall be on her finger, I shall know that I am thanked.”  Then Harry rose to go.  “I did not mean by that to turn you out, but perhaps it may be as well.  I have no more to say; and as for you, you can not but wish that the penance should be over.”  Then he pressed her hand, and with some muttered farewell, bade her adieu.  Again she did not rise from her chair, but, nodding at him with a sweet smile, let him go without another word.