iting　for　you　long；　and　listening：　yet　not　one　movement　have　I　heard；　nor　one　sob：　five　minutes　more　of　that　death…like　hush；　and　I　should　have　forced　the　lock　like　a　burglar。　So　you　shun　me？—you　shut　yourself　up　and　grieve　alone！　I　would　rather　you　had　e　and　upbraided　me　with　vehemence。　You　are　passionate。　I　expected　a　scene　of　some　kind。　I　was　prepared　for　the　hot　rain　of　tears；　only　I　wanted　them　to　be　shed　on　my　breast：　now　a　senseless　floor　has　received　them；　or　your　drenched　handkerchief。　But　I　err：　you　have　not　wept　at　all！　I　see　a　white　cheek　and　a　faded　eye；　but　no　trace　of　tears。　I　suppose；　then；　your　heart　has　been　weeping　blood？”

“Well；　Jane！　not　a　word　of　reproach？　Nothing　bitter—nothing　poignant？　Nothing　to　cut　a　feeling　or　sting　a　passion？　You　sit　quietly　where　I　have　placed　you；　and　regard　me　with　a　weary；　passive　look。”

“Jane；　I　never　meant　to　wound　you　thus。　If　the　man　who　had　but　one　little　ewe　lamb　that　was　dear　to　him　as　a　daughter；　that　ate　of　his　bread　and　drank　of　his　cup；　and　lay　in　his　bosom；　had　by　some　mistake　slaughtered　it　at　the　shambles；　he　would　not　have　rued　his　bloody　blunder　more　than　I　now　rue　mine。　Will　you　ever　forgive　me？”

Reader；　I　forgave　him　at　the　moment　and　on　the　spot。　There　was　such　deep　remorse　in　his　eye；　such　true　pity　in　his　tone；　such　manly　energy　in　his　manner；　and　besides；　there　was　such　unchanged　love　in　his　whole　look　and　mien—I　forgave　him　all：　yet　not　in　words；　not　outwardly；　only　at　my　heart’s　cor