"I thought you had had some trouble," she returned, sympathetically.

"Why did you think so?" he asked.

"You talked when you were out of your head. That's why I first took
pity on you. I never saw a man suffer in mind as you did. You rolled
and tumbled the first two or three nights and begged for forgiveness;
often you spoke so loud I was afraid others in the house would hear."

He opened his palms before her. "These hands are soaked in human
blood--innocent human blood," he said, tragically. "I don't deny it;
if it would do a particle of good I'd tell every soul on earth. I won
a good girl's love, and when I got tired of her and left her she killed
herself to escape the misery I put her in. I was unworthy of her, but
she didn't know it, or want to know it. Nobody knows she took her own
life except me and her mother, and it has ruined her life--taken away
her only comfort in old age and made her my mortal enemy. She never
gives me a minute's rest--she reminds me constantly that I'll never get
forgiveness and never be happily married, and she is right--I never
shall. My wicked nature demands too much of a woman. I can love, and
do love, with all my soul, but my pride cannot be subdued. I--"

"I understand, Mr. Westerfelt" she broke in, quickly. "Don't bring up
that subject again. What you said when I last saw you was enough. It
almost kept me from coming to-night, but it was my duty; but you do not
have to say any more about that." She took a step backward and stood
staring at him in mute misery. She had never felt that she was worthy
of him, in a way, but his cold reference--as she understood it--to her
misfortune released a spring of resentment she hardly knew was wound in
her breast.