for giving this trouble," she
began, in rather a confused way, "and making so much about nothing."

"No man thinks there is much ado about nothing when the ado is about
himself," said Bertram, laughing.

"Well, but I know it is foolish. But I was unjust to you yesterday,
and I could not leave you without confessing it."

"How unjust, Adela?"

"I said you had cast Caroline off."

"Ah, no! I certainly did not do that."

"She wrote to me, and told me everything. She wrote very truly, I
know; and she did not say a word--not a word against you."

"Did she not? Well--no--I know she would not. And remember this,
Adela: I do not say a word against her. Do tell her, not from me, you
know, but of your own observation, that I do not say one word against
her. I only say she did not love me."

"Ah! Mr. Bertram."

"That is all; and that is true. Adela, I have not much to give; but I
would give it all--all--everything to have her back--to have her back
as I used to think her. But if I could have her now--as I know her
now--by raising this hand, I would not take her. But this imputes no
blame to her. She tried to love me, but she could not."

"Ah! she did love you."

"Never!" He almost shouted as he said this; and as he did so, he
stood across his companion's path. "Never! She never loved me. I know
it now. What poor vile wretches we are! It is this I think that most
torments me."

And then they walked on. Adela had come there expressly to speak to
him, but now she was almost afraid to speak. Her heart had been full
of what it would utter, but now all utterance seemed to have left
her. She had intended to console, but she did not dare to attempt it.
There was a depth, almost a sublimity about his grief which kept her
silent.

"Oh! Adela," he said, "if you knew what it is to have an empty
heart--or rather a heart not empty--that would fain be empty that you
might again refill it. Dear Adela!" And he put out his hand to take
her own. She hardly knew why, but she let him take her hand. "Dear
Adela; have you never sighed for the comfort of an empty heart? You
probe my wounds to the bottom; may I not search your own?"

She did not answer him. Was it possible that she should answer such
a question? Her eyes became suffused with tears, and she was unable
to raise them from the ground. She could not recall her hand--not
at that moment. She had come there to lecture him, to talk to him,
to comfort him; and now she was unable