"Elsie," I said to her one night, as she sat, according to her
custom, gazing westward, like those maidens of the old ballads of
chivalry watching for the knights that never came--"Elsie, what is
the matter with you, darling? I have noticed a strange melancholy
in you for some time past. Tell me all about it."
She turned quickly round and gazed at me with eyes wide open and
face filled with a sudden fear. "Why do you ask me that, Mark?"
she answered. "I have nothing to tell."
From the strange, startled manner in which this reply was given, I
felt convinced that she had something to tell, and instantly formed
a determination to discover what it was. A pang shot through my
heart as I thought that the woman whom I held dearer than anything
on earth hesitated to trust me with a petty secret.
I believed I understood. I was tolerably rich. I knew it could
not be any secret over milliners' bills or women's usual money
troubles. God help me! I felt sad enough at the moment, though I
kissed her back and ceased to question her. I felt sad, because my
instinct told me that she deceived me; and it is very hard to be
deceived, even in trifles, by those we love.
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