Her words had kindled a vague hope
in his breast, but in their very frankness and
friendly regard there was something which
slew the hope they had begotten. He held her
hand in his, and her large confiding eyes shone
with an emotion which was beautiful, but was
yet not love.
"If you were but a peasant born like myself,"
said she, in a voice which sounded almost tender,
"then I should like to talk to you as I would to
my own brother; but--"
"No, not brother, Bertha," cried he, with
sudden vehemence; "I love you better than I ever
loved any earthly being, and if you knew how
firmly this love has clutched at the roots of my
heart, you would perhaps--you would at least
not look so reproachfully at me."
She dropped his hand, and stood for a moment silent.
"I am sorry that it should have come to this,
Mr. Grim," said she, visibly struggling for
calmness. "And I am perhaps more to blame
than you."
"Blame," muttered he, "why are you to blame?"
"Because I do not love you; although I sometimes
feared that this might come. But then again
I persuaded myself that it could not be so."
He took a step toward the door, laid his hand
on the knob, and gazed down before him.
"Bertha," began he, slowly, raising his head,
"you have always disapproved of me, you have
despised me in your heart, but you thought you
would be doing a good work if you succeeded
in making a man of me."
"You use strong language," answered she,
hesitatingly; "but there is truth in what you
say.
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