so of course he would not listen to my proposal, and he threatened to disinherit his daughter if she married me.  Then we did what so many others in similar circumstances do—­we married privately.  Soon after this I was summoned home to take possession of my estates.  So I left England; but not until I had discovered the utter unworthiness of the siren whom I was so weak as to make my wife.  I did not reproach the woman, but when I sailed from Liverpool it was with the resolution never to return.”

“Well, sir! even supposing you were drawn into a foolish marriage with an artful woman, and had a good excuse for deserting her, was that any reason why you should have committed the crime of marrying Nora?” cried the woman fiercely.

“Hannah, it was not until after I had read an account of a railway collision, in which it was stated that the Countess of Hurstmonceux was among the killed that I proposed for Nora.  Oh, Hannah, as the Lord in heaven hears me, I believed myself to be a free, single man, a widower, when I married Nora!  My only fault was too great haste.  I believed Nora to be my lawful wife until the unexpected arrival of the Countess of Hurstmonceux, who had been falsely reported among the killed.”

“If this is so,” said Hannah, beginning to relent, “perhaps after all you are more to be pitied than blamed.”

“Thank you, thank you, Hannah, for saying that!  But tell me, does she believe that I willfully deceived her?  Yet why should I ask?  She must think so! appearances are so strong against me,” he sadly reflected.

“But she does not believe it; her last prayer was that she might see you once more before she died, to tell you that she knew you were not to blame,” wept Hannah.

“Bless her! bless her!” exclaimed the young man.

Hannah, whose eyes had never, during this interview, left the face of Nora, now murmured: 

“She is reviving again; will you see her now?”

Herman humbly bowed his head and both approached the bed.

That power—­what is it?—­awe?—­that power which subdues the wildest passions in the presence of death, calmed the grief of Herman as he stood over Nora.

She was too far gone for any strong human emotion; but her pale, rigid face softened and brightened as she recognized him, and she tried to extend her hand towards him.

He saw and gently took it, and stooped low to hear the sacred words her dying lips were trying to pronounce.

“Poor, poor boy; don’t grieve so bitterly; it wasn’t your fault,” she murmured.

“Oh, Nora, your gentle spirit may forgive me, but I never can forgive myself for the reckless haste that has wrought all this ruin!” groaned Herman, sinking on his knees and burying his face on the counterpane, overwhelmed by grief and remorse for the great, unintentional wrong he had done; and by the impossibility of explaining the cause of his fatal mistake to this poor girl whose minutes were now numbered.