a tone which showed how deeply the words had wounded her. 'It is
natural, I suppose, and then, is it not better that I should know it?
It is of no use to hide such things. I should have felt it, if you had
not told me.'

It was not in Hilda's nature to shed tears easily, for she had been
exposed to so few emotions in her life that she had never acquired the
habit of weeping. But there was something in her expression that moved
Greif more than a fit of sobbing could have done. There was an evident
strength in her resentment, even though it showed itself in temperate
words, which indicated a greater solidity of character than the young
man had given her credit for. He had not realised that a love developed
by natural and slow degrees, without a shadow of opposition, could be
deeper and more enduring than the spasmodic passion that springs up
amidst the unstable surroundings of the world, ill nourished by an
uncertain alternation of hope and fear, and prone to consume itself in
the heat of its own expression. The one is about as different from the
other as the slowly moving glacier of the Alps is from the gaudily
decorated and artificially frozen concoction of the ice-cream vendor.

'I am very sorry I said it,' returned Greif penitently. He took her
passive hand in his, hoping to make the peace as quickly as he had
broken it, but she did not return the pressure of his fingers.

'So am I,' she answered thoughtfully. 'I was angry at first. I do not
think I am angry any more, but I cannot forget it, because, in some way
or other, it must be my fault. Forgive you? There is nothing to
forgive, dear. Why should one not speak out what is in one's heart? It
would be a sort of lie, if one did not. I would tell you at once, if I
thought you did not love me--'