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 prowling steps and cunning clutch had stolen the fodder from the sheep? That was the question as it presented itself to her; but she sat silent, and refrained from putting it into words. She sat silent, but he read her heart. 'For the shorn lamb—' she had said, and he had known her thoughts, as they followed, quick, one upon another, through her mind. 'Mary,' he said, seating himself now close beside her on the sofa, 'if his heart be as true to you as mine, he will never remember these things against you.'

'It is my memory, not his, that is my punishment,' she said.

Why could he not take her home with him, and comfort her, and heal that festering wound, and stop that ever-running gush of her heart's blood? But he could not. He had pledged his word and pawned his honour. All the comfort that could be his to bestow must be given in those few minutes that remained to him in that room. And it must be given, too, without falsehood. He could not bring himself to tell her that the sackcloth need not be sore to her poor lacerated body, nor the ashes hitter between her teeth. He could not tell her that the cup of which it was hers to drink might yet be pleasant to the taste, and cool to the lips! What could he tell her? Of the only source of true comfort others, he knew, had spoken,—others who had not spoken in vain. He could not now take up that matter, and press it on her with available strength. For him there was but one thing to say. He had forgiven her; he still loved her; he would have cherished her in his bosom had it been possible. He was a weak, old, foolish man; and there was nothing of which he could speak but of his own heart.

'Mary,' he said, again taking her hand, 'I wish—I wish that I could comfort you.'

'And yet on you also have I brought trouble, and misery—and—all but disgrace!'

'No, my love, no; neither misery nor disgrace,—except this misery, that I shall be no longer near to you. Yes, I will tell you all now. Were I alone in the world, I would still beg you to go back with me.'

'It cannot be; it could not possibly be so.'

'No; for I am not alone. She who loves you so well, has told me so. It must not be. But that is the source of my misery. I have learned to love you too well, and do not know how to part with you. If this had not been so, I would have done all that an old man might to comfort you.'

'But it has been so,' she said. 'I cannot wash out the past. Knowing what I did of myself, Sir Peregrine, I should never have put my foot over your threshold.'

'I wish I might hear its step again upon my floors. I wish I might hear that light step once again.'

'Never, Sir Peregrine. No one again ever shall rejoice to hear