`Have you looked it over?' she murmured. The spell was broken.

`I've read it through,' said I, advancing into the room,--`and I want to know if you'll forgive me--if you can forgive me?'

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there,--but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head, and murmured, in a voice she strove in vain to steady,--

`Can you forgive me?'

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly replied,--

`I hardly can. You should have told me this before. It shows a want of confidence'

`Oh, no,' cried she, eagerly interrupting me, `it was not that! It was no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive me?--I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error,--and must reap them to the end.'

Bitter indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips, and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other reply. She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room. I knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion, was silently passing within. At length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning to me, said calmly--if that might be called calmness, which was so evidently the result of a violent effort--

`Now Gilbert, you must leave me--not this moment, but soon--and you must never come again.'

`Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever!'

`For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought this interview was necessary--at least, I persuaded myself it was so--that we might severally ask and receive each other's pardon for the past; but there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse must end here.'

`End here!' echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon it in silent, sullen despondency.

`You must not come again,' continued she. There was a slight tremor in her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced. `You must know why I tell you so,' she resumed; `and you must see that it is better to part at once:--if it be hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.' She paused. I did not answer. `Will you promise not to come?--If you won't, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another place of refuge--or how to seek it.'

`Helen,' said I, turning impatiently towards her, `I cannot discuss the matter of eternal separation, calmly and dispassionately as you can do. It is no question of mere expedience with me; it is a question of life and death!'