"
"But, Bertha," exclaimed he, looking mournfully
at her, "it is not true when you say that I
owe you nothing. Six years ago, when first I
wooed you, you could not return my love, and
you sent me out into the world, and even refused
to accept any pledge or promise for the future."
"And you returned," she responded, "a man,
such as my hope had pictured you; but, while I
had almost been standing still, you had outgrown
me, and outgrown your old self, and,
with your old self, outgrown its love for me,
for your love was not of your new self, but of
the old. Alas! it is a sad tale, but it is true."
She spoke gravely now, and with a steadier
voice, but her eyes hung upon his face with an
eager look of expectation, as if yearning to detect
there some gleam of hope, some contradiction
of the dismal truth. He read that look
aright, and it pierced him like a sharp sword.
He made a brave effort to respond to its appeal,
but his features seemed hard as stone, and he
could only cry out against his destiny, and
bewail his misfortune and hers.
Toward evening, Ralph was sitting in an
open boat, listening to the measured oar-strokes
of the boatmen who were rowing him out to the
nearest stopping-place of the steamer. The
mountains lifted their great placid heads up
among the sun-bathed clouds, and the fjord
opened its cool depths as if to make room for
their vast reflections. Ralph felt as if he were
floating in the midst of the blue infinite space,
and, with the strength which this feeling
inspired, he tried to face boldly the thought from
which he had but a moment ago shrunk as from
something hopelessly sad and perplexing.
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