There was in the tone in which he spoke something so unutterably melancholy—and in the recollections which his few simple words called crowding to her mind, something at once so touching, so dearly cherished, and so bitterly regretted—that the tears gathered in her full dark eyes, and fell one by one fast and unheeded.
“You do not grieve, then, Mary,” said he, “that you have come here—that we have met once more: do you, Mary?”
“No, no, Edmond—no, indeed,” answered she, sobbing. “God knows I do not, Edmond—no, no.”
“Well, Mary,” said he, “I am happy in the belief that you feel toward me just as you used to do—as happy as one so wretched can hope to be.”
“Edmond, your words affright me,” said she, fixing her eyes full upon him with imploring earnestness: “you look sadder—paler than you d
