His conscience was clear now.

But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing.

She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob.

He dared not trust him self to speak again.
"I am not proud,--as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead.
"You loved me, then ?" he whispered.
Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him.
"I did love you, Stephen.

I did love you,--as you might be, not as you are,--not with those inhuman eyes.