eld it
fast. He did not turn his head.

"It has been my life," he said, "my whole life."

He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would.
There was still magic in her touch.

"Forgive me!" she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm of
the chair. "Forgive me!"

At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silk
cushion, and looked at her bent head. Instinctively she raised her hot
eyes.

"Forgive you?" He spoke very sorrowfully. "I love you. What is there to
forgive? It is not your fault--"

"It is--it is!" she cried, speaking into his sad eyes for forgiveness,
with all her soul.

"I shall die--but it is not your fault," he answered, and he sank back,
for he had raised himself a little. "It is not your fault," he repeated.
"Do not ask me to forgive you. Perhaps I should have lived longer--I do
not know, for I only lived for you. No--I am quiet now. I can speak
better than I could. You must not think that you have killed me, if I
die. Men live through worse, but not men like me, perhaps. Something
else is killing me slowly, but they will not tell me what it is. Never
mind. It will do as well without a name, and if I get well, it needs
none. After all, I am not dead yet, and while I am alive, I can love
you. You have been all to me. If you had loved me, I should have had
more than all the world, and that would have been too much. If I
deceived myself, loving you as I did,--as I do,--it is not your fault,
Veronica. It is not your fault. There was a time last year, when I would
have done anything, given everything, life and all, for one of a
thousand words you have written and said to me since then--when I would
have committed crimes for the touch of this little hand. Do you see? It
is all my fault. That is what I wanted you to understand."

He had said all he could, and his breath came with an effort at the
last. But his lips smiled bravely as he looked at her, still kneeling by
his side. Then he seemed to realize that she should not be there.

"Get up, dear," he said, with failing voice. "You must not kneel--some
one might come--they would think--that you meant--something."

His lids quivered and closed, and his lips trembled oddly. She felt his
hand relax, and she thought that he was gone. Instantly she sprang to
her feet beside him, and lifted his head, her face full of the horror
that goes before the wave of pain for those one loves. But he had not
eve