I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I must needs follow it up with something worse.
'But, Helen!' I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes to her face, 'that man is not your husband: in the sight of heaven he has forfeited all claim to--' She seized my arm with a grasp of startling energy.
'Gilbert, don't!' she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a heart of adamant.

'For God's sake, don't you attempt these arguments! No fiend could torture me like this!' 'I won't, I won't!' said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.
'Instead of acting like a true friend,' continued she, breaking from me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, 'and helping me with all your might--or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right against passion--you leave all the burden to me;--and not satisfied with that, you do your utmost to fight against me--when you know that!--' she paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief.
'Forgive me, Helen!' pleaded I.

'I will never utter another word on the subject.

But may we not still meet as friends ?' 'It will not do,' she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, 'You must know that as well as I.' 'Then what must we do ?' cried I, passionately.

But immediately I added in a quieter tone--'I'll do whatever you desire; only don't say that this meeting is to be our last.' 'And why not?
Don't you know that every time we meet the thoughts of the final parting will become more painful?
Don't you feel that every interview makes us dearer to each other than the last ?' The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least, had felt it.