a letter from you five-and-twenty years ago."

"Yes, five-and-twenty years ago."

"I hope you cannot guess what pain it gave me."

"Yes," she answered faintly, "I can conceive it, from the pain it gave to
me."

There was a pause, and then he stepped forward and, holding out his hand,
said: "Will you permit me?" He kissed her fingers courteously, and she
blushed. "I have waited," he added, "for God to bring this to pass."
She shook her head sadly, and her eyes sought his beseechingly, as though
he should spare her; but perhaps he could not see that.

"You spoke of a great obstacle then; has it been removed?"

"It is still between us," she murmured.

"Is it likely ever to vanish?"

"I--I do not know."

"You can not tell me what it is?"

"Oh, you will not ask me," she pleaded.

He was silent a moment, then spoke. "Might I dare to hope, Barbara, that
you still regard me with--" he hesitated.