worthy of you. But you are young,
and can wait, and, as you remember, perhaps in the silence of the
night, that there is a man whom God made for you, thinking for you,
striving for you,--you will learn the great secret.'

I fancy at that time Lorna Bolivick really thought his mind was
unhinged; I imagine, too, that she was afraid, because Edgecumbe told
me that a look amounting almost to terror was in her eyes. But he
seems to have taken no notice of this, for he went on.

'You are thinking of other men who love you; that young fellow Buller
is very fond of you in his own way, and perhaps Springfield has also
made love to you. Perhaps, too, he has fascinated you. But that will
not stop you from loving me. Even if you have promised him anything,
you must give him up.'

'Perhaps you will finish your walk alone, Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said.
'I--I am going back to the house.'

'Not yet,' he replied. 'In a few minutes I shall have finished. I did
not expect you to be as patient as you have been, and I thank you. But
if you _have_ any thoughts about Springfield, you will give them up.
He is no fit mate for you; he is as far removed from you as heaven is
from hell.'

At this she spoke passionately. 'You doubtless have forgotten many
things,' she said, 'and one thing is that one gentleman never speaks
evil of another.'

'I say what I have to say,' he replied, 'because life, and all it
means, trembles in the balance. I do not pretend to know anything
about Springfield, although I have a feeling that his life and my life
have been associated in the past, and will be again in the future. But
let that pass. You may be fascinated by him, but you can never love
him,--you simply can't. Your nature is as pure as those raindrops, as
transparent as the sky. You love things that are pure and
beautiful,--and that man's nature is dark and sinister, if not evil.
There is only one other thing I have to tell you, then we will return.
You see,' he added, 'I am not asking you to promise me anything, or to
tell me anything,--I only want to tell you. I suppose I am about
thirty years of age, I don't know; how long ago it was that I lost my
memory I can't tell; but my friend Luscombe tells me that perhaps, when
I was younger than I am now--that is in those days which are all dark
to me--I loved some woman and married her. Of course I didn't. But
even when I have won a position worthy of you, and when my name shall
be equal to