id, touching the
letters. "I did not know the poor dears had written. It was good of you
to come back at the call of these unhappy letters. Will you not burn
them, Everard, and forget them? There is a fire waiting for them."

She put them into his hand. She had not spoken to him by his Christian
name before. His anger sank suddenly. He took them in a shamed silence,
and dropped them into the fire. Magdalen sat down by the hearth, and he
sat down near her. Together they watched them burn.

"I ought to have burnt them yesterday," he said remorsefully.

"I am glad you did not. I am so thankful to see you again, and that
these foolish letters brought you. I have often longed to have a talk
with you.

"It seems unreasonable," continued Magdalen, her clear eyes meeting his,
"but the fact of your asking me to marry you makes it possible for me to
tell you what I have long wished to tell you. I have often thought of
writing it. I did write it once, but I tore it up. It seems as if a
woman _can't_ say certain things to a man till he has said, 'Will you
marry me?' Then it is easy, because then nothing she may say can rouse a
suspicion in his mind that she wants to make him say it."

"I have proposed to you twice, Magdalen. Is not that enough?" His voice
was very bitter. "I venture to prophesy that you will be safe from my
pestering you with a third offer."

"I am sure of it. I never dreamed that you would ask me this second
time. I never thought we should meet again except by chance, as we did a
year ago. But I have had you in my mind, and I have often
feared--often--that I was a painful remembrance to you; that when you
thought of me it was with regret that you had perhaps--it is not so easy
to say after all--that you had spoilt my life."

"I did reproach myself bitterly with having made love to you when you
were so very young and inexperienced, and when I ought to have
remembered that I was not in a position to marry. Your father did rub
that in. As if I could help my poverty."

"Father is not a reasonable person. You were nearly as young as I was.
Looking back now it seems as if we had both been almost children."

"It was a great misfortune for both of us," he said, colouring. He had
not felt it great after the first.

"Not for me," she said. "That is what I have long wished to tell you. It
has been my great good fortune. Not at first--but after a time. I should
never have known love--of that I am sure--unless it ha