`I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,' replied I as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my breath from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to look in her face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether: `I thought an interview would only disturb your peace and madden me. But I am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never cease to remember you.'

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stood in the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was she considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing

`You might have had such an opportunity before--as far I mean as regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, if you had written to me.'

`I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my writing--but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.

`Did you expect me to write to you then?'

`No, Helen--Mrs. Huntingdon,' said I, blushing at the implied imputation, `certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him about me now and then--'

`I did ask about you, frequently. I was not going to do more,' continued she, smiling, `so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few polite enquiries about my health.'

`Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.

`Did you ever ask him?'

`No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate attachment.' Helen did not reply. `And he was perfectly right,' added I. But she remained in silence looking out upon the snowy lawn. `Oh, I will relieve her of my presence!' thought I; and immediately I rose and advanced to take leave, with a most heroic resolution--but pride was at the bottom of it, or it could not have carried me through.

`Are you going already?' said she, taking the hand I offered, and not immediately letting it go.

`Why should I stay any longer?'

`Wait till Arthur comes, at least.'

Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the window.

`You told me you were not changed,' said my companion: you are--very much so.'

`No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.'

`Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had when last we met?'

`I have, but it would be wrong to talk of it now.'

`It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now--unless to do so would be to violate the truth.'