He could see her distinctly: she stood in a shaft of moonlight falling
between the sombre firs, and her face was marble-like; her whole pose was
statuesque, all the girlish gentleness of the other days seemed to have
fled from her, and her hour of tribulation had invested her with a
dignity and force of will that sat well upon her stately figure. Harry
beheld her with something like terror. This was not the woman he loved.
His cause had never seemed so utterly hopeless as now, and yet he felt
that it was not the true Chris with whom he was dealing; that the true
Chris was the soft-eyed clinging girl safely enshrined in his heart.

'Chris,' he said, 'you have changed--but you'll come to me again?'

Her face was turned towards him; she shook her head with passionless
decision.

'No, Harry,' she answered, 'that is all past. I sent for you to tell you
that we must forget.'

'Forget!' he cried, springing forward and seizing her hand, 'how can I
forget? Can a man forget that he loves?'

'You will forget. It is better, and you will live to be glad that you
did.'

'Never, never! Chris, what do you mean? Why're you talking to me of
forgetting--why, why?'

'Because I know in my heart that it must be. I came here to tell you so,
to ask you to waste no more thought on me.'