play,' as you call it----" he had begun angrily, but a
certain sympathy for her, new-born out of his own trouble, stopped him,
and he went on, only reproach in his tone: "It was a sad play for me,
because my heart has never been my own since. I could not find out who
you were then, or where you hid yourself; I do not know now, but----"
He stopped; he did not wish to offend her; he looked at the glossy neck
of the horse he was holding. "I was young and very foolish, but I loved
you."

The sound of his own low sad tones was still in his ears when he also
heard the low music of irrepressible laughter, and, looking up, he saw
that the recollection which a few minutes before had made him smile had
now entirely overcome the lady's gravity. She was blushing, she was
trying not to laugh; but in spite of herself she did laugh more and more
heartily, and although her merriment was inopportune, he could not help
joining in it to some extent. It was so cheerful to see the
laughter-loving self appear within the grave face, to be beside her, and
to have partnership in her mirth. So they looked in each other's eyes,
and they both laughed, and after that they felt better.

"And yet," said he, "it was a frolic that has worked sorrow for me."

"Come," said she, lifting her reins, "you will regret if you go on
talking this way."

She would have gone on quite lightly and contentedly, and left him there
as if he had said nothing of love, as if their words had been the mere
reminiscence of a past that had no result in the present, as if his
heart was not breaking; but a fierce sense of this injustice made him
keep his hold of her bridle. She could weep over the pains of the poor
and the death of their children. She should not go unmindful that his
happiness was wrecked.

"Do you still take me for the young muff that I used to be, that you pay
no heed to what I say? I would scorn to meet you every day while I must
remain here and conceal from you the fact which, such is my weakness,
is the only fact in life for me just now. My heart is breaking because I
have found that the woman I love is wholly out of my reach. Can you not
give that a passing thought of pity? I have told you now; when we meet,
you will know that it is not as indifferent acquaintances, but
as--enemies if you will, for you, a happy married woman--will count me
your enemy! Yet I have not harmed you, and the truth is better at all
costs."

She was giving him her full at