knew it all, and she longed to assure him of her sympathy. At last
when he seemed to be more calm, she stole up to him, and kneeling at
his side bent over him so that her bright hair mingled with his own.

"Mr. Browning," she whispered softly, "I _know your secret,_ and I do
not love you less."

"_You, Rosamond, you know it!_" he exclaimed, gazing fixedly at her.
"It cannot be. You would never do as you have done."

"But I do know it," she continued, taking both his hands in hers, and
looking him steadily in the eye, by way of controlling him, should he
be seized with a sudden attack, "I know exactly what it is, and though
it will prevent me from being your wife, it will not prevent me from
loving you just the same, or from living with you either. I shall stay
here always--and--and--pardon me, Mr. Browning, but when you get
furious, as you sometimes do, I can quiet you better than any one
else, and it may be, the world will never need to know you're a
_madman!"_

Mr. Browning looked searchingly into her innocent eyes, and then, in
spite of himself, he laughed aloud. He understood why she should think
him a madman, and though he repented of it afterward, he hastened to
undeceive her now. "As I hope to see another day, it is not that," he
said. "It is far worse than insanity; and, Rosamond, though it breaks
my heart to say it, it is wicked for me to talk of love to you, and
you must not remember what I said. You must crush every tender thought
of me. You must forget me--nay, more--you must _hate_ me. Will you,
Rosamond?"