have told me what was struggling in her mind, and would have counselled with me, and I might have saved her.’

I pressed his hand.

‘Is that all?’ ‘Theer’s yet a something else,’ he returned, ‘if I can say it, Mas’r Davy.’

We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he spoke again. He was not crying when he made the pauses I shall express by lines. He was merely collecting himself to speak very plainly.

‘I loved her — and I love the mem’ry of her — too deep — to be able to lead her to believe of my own self as I’m a happy man.

I could only be happy — by forgetting of her — and I’m