“About—about that little square piano. I never thanked you for it when you gave it me, many, many years ago, before I was married. I thought somebody else had given it. Thank you, William.” She held out her hand, but the poor little woman’s heart was bleeding; and as for her eyes, of course they were at their work.

But William could hold no more. “Amelia, Amelia,” he said, “I did buy it for you. I loved you then as I do now. I must tell you. I think I loved you from the first minute that I saw you, when George brought me to your house, to show me the Amelia whom he was engaged to. You were but a girl, in white, with large ringlets; you came down singing—do you remember?— and we went to Vauxhall. Since then I have thought of but one woman in the world, and that was you. I think there is no hour in the day has passed for twelve years that I haven’t thought of you. I came to tell you this before I went to India, but you did not care, and I hadn’t the heart to speak. You did not care whether I stayed or went.”

“I was very ungrateful,” Amelia said.

“No, only indifferent,” Dobbin continued desperately. “I have nothing to make a woman to be otherwise. I know what you are feeling now. You are hurt in your heart at the discovery about the piano, and that it came from me and not from George. I forgot, or I should never have spoken of it so. It is for me to ask your pardon for being a fool for a moment, and thinking that years of constancy and devotion might have pleaded with you.”

“It is you who are cruel now,” Amelia said with some spirit. “George is my husband, here and in heaven. How could I love any other but him? I am his now as when you first saw me, dear William. It was he who told me how good and generous you were, and who taught me to love you as a brother. Have you not been everything to me and my boy? Our dearest, truest, kindest friend and protector? Had you come a few months sooner perhaps you might have spared me that—that dreadful parting. Oh, it nearly killed me, William—but you didn’t come, though I wished and prayed for you to come, and they took him too away from me. Isn’t he a noble boy, William? Be his friend still and mine”—and here her voice broke, and she hid her face on his shoulder.

The Major folded his arms round her, holding her to him as if she was a child, and kissed her head. “I will not change, dear Amelia,” he said. “I ask for no more than your love. I think I would not have it otherwise. Only let me stay near you and see you often.”

“Yes, often,” Amelia said. And so William was at liberty to look and long—as the poor boy at school who has no money may sigh after the contents of the tart-woman’s tray.