“Oh, my dear, my dear little girl,” Michael sighed.  “If you knew how all this is cutting me to the heart to think of the awful brute I have been—­to think of you bearing things all alone—­I somehow never realized the possibility of this happening—­but once or twice when it did cross my mind I thought of course you would have cabled to me if so—­I am simply appalled now at the casual selfishness of my behavior—­can you ever forgive me, Sabine?”

She smoothed back his dark thick hair and looked into his bold eyes, now soft and glistening with tears.

“Of course I can forgive you, Michael—­I belong to you, you see——­”

So when he had kissed her enough in gratitude and contrition he besought her to go on.

“The years passed and I thought I had really forgotten you—­and my life grew so peaceful with the Pere Anselme and Madame Imogen here at Heronac, and all sorts of wonderful and interesting studies kept developing for me.  I seemed to grow up and realize things and the memory of you grew less and less—­but society never held out any attractions for me—­only to be with Moravia.  I had taken almost a loathing for men; their actions seemed to me all cruel and predatory, not a single one attracted me in the least degree—­until this summer at Carlsbad when we met Henry.  And he appeared so good and true and kind—­and I felt he could lift me to noble things and give me a guiding hand to greatness of purpose in life—­I liked him—­but I must tell you the truth, Michael, and you will see how small I am,” here she held tightly to Michael’s hand—­“I do not think I would ever have promised him at Carlsbad that I would try to free myself only that I read in the paper that you were at Ostende—­with Daisy Van der Horn.  That exasperated me—­even though I thought I was absolutely indifferent to you after five years.  I had never seen your name in the paper before, it was the first indication I had had that you had come home—­and the whole thing wounded my pride.  I felt that I must ask for my freedom from you before you possibly could ask for yours from me.  So I told Henry that very night that I had made up my mind.”

“Oh! you dear little goose,” Michael interrupted.  “Not one of those ladies mattered to me more than the other—­they were merely to pass the time of day, of no importance whatever.”

“I dare say—­but I am telling you my story, Michael—­Well, Henry was so wonderful, so good—­and it got so that he seemed to mean everything fine, he drew me out of myself and your shadow grew to mean less and less to me and I believed that I had forgotten you quite—­except for the irritation I felt about Daisy—­and then by that extraordinary turn of fate, Henry himself brought you here, and I did not even know the name of the friend who was coming with him; he had not told me in the hurried postscript of his letter saying he was bringing some one—­I saw you both arrive from the lodge, and when I heard the tones of your voice—­Ah! well, you can imagine what it meant!”