thy.

'Say it again!' he murmured, as their eyes met; 'say it again. It is so
sweet--from you!'

There was a long pause; she stood as if fascinated, her hands falling
slowly beside her. Her gaze wavered till the eyelids fell, and she stood
absolutely motionless, the tears still on her cheek. The strange
intoxicating force of feeling, set in motion by sorrow and pity, and the
unsuspected influence of his love, was sweeping them out into deep
waters. She could hardly breathe, but as he watched her all the manhood
in him rose, and from the midst of grief put forward an imperious claim
to the beloved and beautiful woman before him. He came forward a step,
took the cold, unresisting hands, and, bending before her, pressed them
to his lips, while her bewildered eyes looked down upon him.

'Your pity is heavenly,' he said brokenly; 'but give me more, give me
more! I want your love!'

She gave a little start and cry, and, drawing away her hands from him,
sank back on her chair. Her thoughts went flying back to the past--to the
stretches of Surrey common, to the Nuneham woods, and all she had ever
seen or imagined of his feelings towards her. She had never, never
suspected him of loving her. She had sent him her friendly messages from
Venice in the simplest good faith; she had joined in his sister's
praises of him without a moment's self-consciousness. His approval of her
play in _Elvira_ had given her the same frank pleasure that a master's
good word gives to a pupil--and all the time he had loved her--loved her!
How strange! how incredible!

Kendal followed, bent over her, listened, but no word came. She was,
indeed, too bewildered and overwhelmed to speak. The old bitter fear and
certainty began to assert itself against the overmastering impulse which
had led him on.

'I have startled you--shocked you,' he cried. 'I ought not to have
spoken--and at such a time. It was your pity overcame me--your sweet
womanly kindness. I have loved you, I think, ever since that first
evening after the _White Lady_. At least, when I look back upon my
feeling, I see that it was love from the beginning. After that day at
Nuneham I knew that it was love; but I would not acknowledge it; I fought
against it. It seemed to me that you would never forget that I had been
harsh, that I had behaved rather like an enemy than a friend. But you did
forget--you showed me how noble a woman could be, and every day after we
parted in July I loved you mor