there been no passion in her heart, she would now have known herself
to be strong in duty, and would have been able to have answered and
to have borne the rebuke of her old lover. But passion was there,
hot within her, aiding every word as he spoke it, giving strength to
his complaints, telling her of all that she had lost, telling her of
all she had taken from him. She forgot to remember now that he had
been silent for a year. She forgot now to think of the tone in
which he had asked about her marriage when no such marriage was in
her mind. But she remembered well the promise she had made, and the
words of it. 'Your vow was for ever and ever.' When she heard
those words repeated from his lips, her heart too was broken. All
idea of holding herself before him as one injured but ready to
forgive was gone from her. If by falling at his feet and owning
herself to be vile and mansworn she might get his pardon, she was
ready now to lie there on the ground before him.

'O George!' she said; 'O George!'

'What is the use of that now?' he replied, turning away from her.
He had thrown his thunderbolt, and he had nothing more to say. He
had seen that he had not thrown it quite in vain, and he would have
been contented to be away and back at Colmar. What more was there
to be said?

She came to him very gently, very humbly, and just touched his arm
with her hand. 'Do you mean, George, that you have continued to
care for me--always?'

'Care for you? I know not what you call caring. Did I not swear to
you that I would love you for ever and ever, and that you should be