"Formerly," I answered，"because you did not love me; now，I reply，because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you，you would kill me.

You are killing me now."

His lips and cheeks turned white- quite white.

"I should kill you- I am killing you? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent，unfeminine，and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable，but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times."

I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence，I had stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression: I had burnt it in.

"Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you."

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse，because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung.

"You utterly misinterpret my words," I said，at once seizing his hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you- indeed，I have not."

Most bitterly he smiled- most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. "And now you recall your promise，and will not go to India at all，I presume?" said he，after a considerable pause.

"Yes，I will，as your assistant," I answered.

A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval，I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes，and strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last.

"I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to acpany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as，I should have thought，would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so，I regret- for your sake."