lips asked the same question his eyes had asked before. "Can you forgive me?"
I always thought Brown's voice one of the nicest things about him, unless perhaps his eyes; and both were at their very nicest now. I hadn't realized, till he came to me, how much I should want to forgive him. I did want to, awfully, but I felt it would never do; and I think I must have been commendably dignified as I answered: "The hardest possible thing for a woman to forgive a man is making her ridiculous."
"But then," he cut in, quite boldly, "I don't ask you to forgive me for a sin I haven't committed, only for those I have."
"You have made me ridiculous," I insisted.
"I fancied it was myself; but I didn't mind that, or anything else which gave me a chance of being near you, even under false pretences. It is for deceiving you that I ask to be forgiven. I lived a good many lies as Brown, but honestly, I believe I never told one. Do forgive me. I sha'n't be able to bear my life if you don't."
"I can't forgive you," I said again.
"Then punish me first and forgive me afterwards—very soon. I deserve that you should do both."
"I think you do deserve the first, but I don't quite see how or why you deserve the second."
"Because I worship you, and would rather be your servant than be king of a country in which you didn't live."
"Oh!" I couldn't say another word, for thinking of Brown being in love with me, and there being no
