“And what convinced you that I was selfish, if I may ask?”

“What convinced me?” repeated she, in a tone of inexpressible contempt.  “When did you ever act from any generous regard for others?  What good did you ever do to anybody?”

“You might ask, with equal justice, what good I ever did to myself.”

“In a certain sense, yes; because to gratify a mere momentary wish is hardly doing one’s self good.”

“Then I have, at all events, followed the Biblical precept, and treated my neighbor very much as I treat myself.”

“I did think,” continued Bertha, without heeding the remark, “that you were, at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bred ever to commit an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad.  Now I see that I have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the most sacred feelings of a woman’s heart in mere wantonness, or for the sake of satisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the mind of an upright and generous man.”

The hard, benumbed look in Ralph’s face thawed in the warmth of her presence, and her words, though stern, touched a secret spring in his heart.  He made two or three vain attempts to speak, then suddenly broke down, and cried: 

“Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me, have patience with me, and listen.”

And he told her, in rapid, broken sentences, how his love for her had grown from day to day, until he could no longer master it; and how, in an unguarded moment, when his pride rose in fierce conflict against his love, he had done this reckless deed of which he was now heartily ashamed.  The fervor of his words touched her, for she felt that they were sincere.  Large mute tears trembled in her eyelashes as she sat gazing tenderly at him, and in the depth of her soul the wish awoke that she might have been able to return this great and strong love of his; for she felt that in this love lay the germ of a new, of a stronger and better man.  She noticed, with a half-regretful pleasure, his handsome figure, his delicately shaped hands, and the noble cast of his features; an overwhelming pity for him rose within her, and she began to reproach herself for having spoken so harshly, and, as she now thought, so unjustly.  Perhaps he read in her eyes the unspoken wish.  He seized her hand, and his words fell with a warm and alluring cadence upon her ear.

“I shall not see you for a long time to come, Bertha,” said he, “but if at the end of five or six years your hand is still free, and I return another man—­a man to whom you could safely intrust your happiness—­would you then listen to what I may have to say to you?  For I promise, by all that we both hold sacred—­”

“No, no,” interrupted she, hastily.  “Promise nothing.  It would be unjust to yourself, and perhaps also to me; for a sacred promise is a terrible thing, Ralph.  Let us both remain free; and, if you return and still love me, then come, and I shall receive you and listen to you.  And even if you have outgrown your love, which is, indeed, more probable, come still to visit me wherever I may be, and we shall meet as friends and rejoice in the meeting.”