It would be dreadful, and I wish you did not think it.

But we will not talk about it,--of course you would rather not talk about it, even to me, but I understand." She bent forward, and smiled brightly, as she looked at him.

But his face was full of grief.
"It was not that, Helen," he said; "it was something nearer than that.
It was remorse, because of late, for nearly a year, I have neglected my people.

I have not admonished them and warned them as I ought.

And nearer still, because I have neglected you." "Me!" she cried, too much astonished to say more.
"Yes," he answered, his head bent again upon his breast, "you, my dearest, my best beloved,--you, who are dearer than my life to me, dearer than my happiness.