“What is hard, beloved?”

She raised her head abruptly, and turned upon him a gaze full of hope and doubt, and sweet perplexity.

“Ah, no, you do not love me,” she whispered, sadly.

“Why should I come to seek you, after these many years, dearest, if I did not wish to make you my wife before God and men?  Why should I—­”

“Ah, yes, I know,” she interrupted him with a fresh fit of weeping, “you are too good and honest to wish to throw me away, now when you have seen how my soul has hungered for the sight of you these many years, how even now I cling to you with a despairing clutch.  But you can not disguise yourself, Ralph, and I saw from the first moment that you loved me no more.

“Do not be such an unreasonable child,” he remonstrated, feebly.  “I do not love you with the wild, irrational passion of former years; but I have the tenderest regard for you, and my heart warms at the sight of your sweet face, and I shall do all in my power to make you as happy as any man can make you who—­”

“Who does not love me,” she finished.

A sudden shudder seemed to shake her whole frame, and she drew herself more tightly up to him.

“Ah, no,” she continued, after a while, sinking back upon her seat.  “It is a hopeless thing to compel a reluctant heart.  I will accept no sacrifice from you.  You owe me nothing, for you have acted toward me honestly and uprightly, and I shall be a stronger or—­at least—­a better woman for what you gave me—­and—­for what you could not give me, even though you would.”

“But, Bertha,” exclaimed he, looking mournfully at her, “it is not true when you say that I owe you nothing.  Six years ago, when first I wooed you, you could not return my love, and you sent me out into the world, and even refused to accept any pledge or promise for the future.”

“And you returned,” she responded, “a man, such as my hope had pictured you; but, while I had almost been standing still, you had outgrown me, and outgrown your old self, and, with your old self, outgrown its love for me, for your love was not of your new self, but of the old.  Alas! it is a sad tale, but it is true.”

She spoke gravely now, and with a steadier voice, but her eyes hung upon his face with an eager look of expectation, as if yearning to detect there some gleam of hope, some contradiction of the dismal truth.  He read that look aright and it pierced him like a sharp sword.  He made a brave effort to respond to its appeal, but his features seemed hard as stone, and he could only cry out against his destiny, and bewail his misfortune and hers.

Toward evening, Ralph was sitting in an open boat, listening to the measured oar-strokes of the boatmen who were rowing him out to the nearest stopping-place of the steamer.  The mountains lifted their great placid heads up among the sun-bathed clouds, and the fjord opened its cool depths as if to make room for their vast reflections.  Ralph felt as if he were floating in the midst of the blue infinite space, and, with the strength which this feeling inspired, he tried to face boldly the thought from which he had but a moment ago shrunk as from something hopelessly sad and perplexing.