It's my cough, I suppose. It's so pleasant to feel, though, that people--some one cares for me; only it makes me feel that I shall not want to go."

"Come, come, this is nonsense," he said, cheerily. "Why, you're not an invalid."

"I should be, I think, if we were rich," she said, sadly. "But let's go on along by that high sand bank, where the flowers are growing; and here is a wood all deep shades of green."

"But you will be tired?"

"No, no; you said I might rest on you. I should not be weak if I could live out here, and dear mamma were not compelled to work. Poor mamma!"

They walked on in silence, and she leaned more heavily upon his arm.

Twice their eyes met, and as Netta's fell before those of her companion it was not until they had told the sweet, pure love of her young heart.

They were no fiery, rapturous glances--no looks of pa.s.sionate ecstasy; but the soft, beaming maiden love of an innocent, trusting girl, whose young heart was opening, like a flower, to offer its fragrant sweets to the man who had first spoken gentle words to her--words that had seemed to her, who had not had girlhood's joys, like the words of love. And that young heart had opened under the influence, like the scented rosebud in the sun; but there was a fatal canker there, and as the flower bloomed, the withering was at hand.

"Let us stop here," cried Netta, drinking in the beauty of the scene; "it is like being young again, when we were so happy--when mamma watched for papa's coming, and there seemed no trouble in life. Oh, it has been a cruel time!"

She shuddered, and clung to the arm which supported her.

"This is very wrong of me," she said, looking up, and smiling the next moment. "I ought not to talk of the past like that."

"Shall we sit down here?" he said, pointing to a fallen tree trunk.

Then, with the low hum of the insects round them, they entered the edge of the wood.

He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments, and twice her eyes were raised to his with so appealing and tender a look that he felt unmanned. He had brought her there to tell her something, and her love disarmed him; so that he s.n.a.t.c.hed at a chance to put off that which he wished to say.

"You were telling me of the happy past," he said. "Your were well off once?"

"Yes, and so happy," said the girl, her eyes filling with tears. "I ought not, perhaps, to tell you, though."

"You may trust me, Netta," he said, taking her hand.

"I always felt that I could," she cried, eagerly, as her face flushed more deeply, and her hand trembled in his; for he had again called her Netta, and her heart throbbed with joy, even though he was so grave.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes--tell me; but are you weary?"

"Oh, no, no," she said, excitedly. "But I must not mention names.

Mamma wishes ours kept secret, for she is very proud. Papa is an officer, and as I remember him first, he was so handsome, even as mamma was beautiful. We used to live in a pretty cottage, just outside town, and papa was so kind. But how it came about I never knew, he gradually grew cold, and hard, and stern, so that I was afraid of him when he came to see us, and he used to be angry to mamma, and then stay away for weeks together, then months, till at last we rarely saw him. The pretty cottage was sold, with everything in it--even my presents; and mamma and I lived in lodgings. And then trouble used to come about money; for poor mamma would be half distracted when none was sent her, and this dreadful neglected state went on, till mamma said she could bear it no more. Then she used to go out and give lessons; but that was terribly precarious work, and soon after she used to work with her needle."

"And your father?" said Richard.

"Never came," said Netta--"at least, very rarely. But I ought not to tell you more."

"Can you not trust me?" he said, with a smile.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," cried the girl, impetuously, and she nestled closer to him. "I can trust you. It was like this:--Papa was a Roman Catholic, and mamma had always brought me up in her own Protestant religion; and by degrees I found out he had made a point of that, and had told mamma that their marriage was void, as it had only been performed according to one church. He used to write and tell her that he was free, and that if she would give up every claim on him, and promise to write to that effect, he would settle a regular income upon her."

"And your mamma?"

"I heard her say once to herself that it would be disgracing me, and that she would sooner we starved. That is why we have worked so hard, and had to live in such dreadful places," said the girl, shuddering.

"My poor child!" he said, tenderly. "Yours has been a hard life, and you so delicate."

"I shall grow strong now," she said, half shyly; "but why do you call me child?"

She looked up in his face with a smile, half playful, half tender--a look that made him shiver.

"You are not cross with me?" she said, gazing at him piteously.

"Cross? No," he said, gently.

And he once more took her hand, trying hard to begin that which he had brought her there to tell, but as far off as ever. At the end of a minute, though, she gave him the opportunity, by saying naively--

"You have never told me anything about yourself. Mamma wondered what you were--so different to everybody we meet."

"Let me tell you, Netta," he said, earnestly. "And promise me this-- that we are still to be great friends."

She looked at him wonderingly.

"Yes, of course," she said. "Why should we not be? You have always been so kind."

He paused for a moment or two; and then, there in the calm of that shadowy wood, with the sunbeams coming like golden arrows through the leafy boughs, and the distant twitter of some bird for interruption, he told her of his own life and troubles, watching her bright, animated face as she listened eagerly, sometimes laying her hand confidingly upon his arm, till his tale approached the chapters of his love; and now, impa.s.sioned in his earnestness, he half forgot the listener at his side, till, in the midst of his declaration of love and trust and fidelity to Valentina Rea, he became aware of a faint sigh, and he had just time to catch the poor girl as she was slipping from the tree trunk to the ground.

"Poor child!" he said, raising her in his arms, gazing in the pale face, and kissing her forehead. "It was a cruel kindness, for Heaven knows I never thought of this."

He sat holding her for a few moments, as animation came slowly back, till at last her eyes opened, looking wonderingly in his; and then, as recollection returned, she put up her two hands as if in prayer, and said, piteously--

"Take me home--please, take me home."

"Netta, my child," cried Richard, sinking at her feet, "recollect your promise--that we were to be friends. I have hurt you--I have wounded you. I call G.o.d to witness that I never meant it!"

A sad smile quivered for a moment on her poor white lips, as he kissed her hands again and again; and then, as the full reality of all she had heard came upon her, she uttered a low, heart-breaking wail, and sank upon the ground amidst the ferns and gra.s.s, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

"My G.o.d, what have I done?" exclaimed Richard, hoa.r.s.ely. "Netta, my child, I tried to be kind to you, and it has all turned to gall and bitterness. For Heaven's sake, tell me you forgive me--that you do not think me base and cruel. Netta, pray--pray speak to me."

She dropped her hands in her lap, and raised her blank white face to his.

"You believe me?" he cried, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes, yes," she said, piteously. "It was my fault. I thought--I thought--"

"Hush, my poor darling!" he whispered, "I know what you would say. I should have known better."

"No," she said, sweetly, and her trembling voice was so piteous that the tears rose to the strong man's eyes. "It was I who should have known better, Richard--I, who have only a few short months to stay on earth."

"Netta!" he cried, and his voice was wild and strange.

"Yes, it is true," she said, simply--"it is quite true; but you came like sunshine to my poor dark life, and I could not help it--I thought you loved me."