Yes, it is too true--she is sobbing.

What a total overthrow to all my selfish resolves, all my egotistical plans, did that slight cadence give.

She was crying--her tears for the bitter pain she concluded I was suffering--mingling doubtless with sorrow for her own sources of grief--for it was clear to me that whoever may have been my favoured rival, the attachment was either unknown to, or unsanctioned by the mother.

I wished I had not listened; all my determinations were completely routed and as I opened the door I felt my heart beating almost audibly against my side.
In a subdued half-light--tempered through the rose-coloured curtains, with a small sevres cup of newly-plucked moss-roses upon the table--sat, or rather leaned, Emily Bingham, her face buried in her hands as I entered.

She did not hear my approach, so that I had above a minute to admire the graceful character of her head, and the fine undulating curve of her neck and shoulders, before I spoke.
"Miss Bingham," said I-- She started--looked up--her dark blue eyes, brilliant though tearful, were fixed upon me for a second, as if searching my very inmost thoughts.
She held out her hand, and turning her head aside, made room for me on the sofa beside her.