that intense feeling is the mother of eloquence. He gazed at her for a
moment in astonishment; then he dropped his face into his hands again
and groaned, making no other answer. After waiting awhile, she went
on--

"I am an insignificant creature, I know, and perhaps the mite of my
happiness or misery makes little difference in the scale of things;
but to me the gift of all my love was everything. I gave it to you,
Philip--gave it without a doubt or murmur, gave it with both hands. I
can never have it back to give again! How you have treated it you best
know." Here she broke down a little, and then continued: "It may seem
curious, but though my love has been so mistakenly given; though you
to whom it was given have dealt so ill with it; yet I am anxious that
on my side there should be no bitter memory, that, in looking back at
all this in after years, you should never be able to dwell upon any
harsh or unkind word of mine. It is on that account, and also because
I feel that it is not for me to judge you, and that you have already
much to bear, that I do as you ask me, and say, 'Philip, from my heart
I forgive you, as I trust that the Almighty may forgive me.'"

He flung himself upon his knees before her, and tried to take her
hand. "You do not know how you have humbled me," he groaned.

She gazed at him with pity.

"I am sorry," she said; "I did not wish to humble you. I have one word
more to say, and then I must go. I have just bid my last earthly
farewell to--your wife. My farewell to you must be as complete as
that, as complete as though the grave had already swallowed one of us.
We have done with each other for ever. I do not think that I shall