four years."

"Penance?" she said dreamily--"penance? What guarantee of happiness
would that be? One would not wish another to do penance if--"

She paused.

"I understand," he said--"if one cared--if one loved. Yes, I understand.
But that does not alter the force or meaning of the wish. I swear to you
that I repent with all my heart--the first wrong to you, the long
absence--the neglect--everything."

She turned slowly to him. "Everything-Everything?" she repeated after
him. "Do you understand what that means? Do you know a woman's heart?
No. Do you know what a shameful neglect is at the most pitiful time in
your life? No. How can a man know! He has a thousand things--the woman
has nothing, nothing at all except the refuge of home, that for which she
gave up everything!"

Presently she broke off, and something sprang up and caught her in the
throat. Years of indignation were at work in her. "I have had a home,"
she said, in a low, thrilling voice--"a good home; but what did that cost
you? Not one honest sentiment of pity, kindness, or solicitude. You
clothed me, fed me, abandoned me, as--how can one say it? Do I not know,
if coming back you had found me as you expected to find me, what the
result would have been? Do I not know? You would have endured me if I
did not thrust myself upon you, for you have after all a sense of legal
duty, a kind of stubborn honour. But you would have made my life such
that some day one or both of us would have died suddenly. For"--she
looked him with a hot clearness in the eyes--"for there is just so much