"You shall know some time—but not now—my head aches terribly," she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, "and I must have some repose—and surely, I have had misery enough to day!" she added, almost wildly.
"But it could not harm you to tell it," I persisted: "it would ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you."
She shook her head despondingly. "If you knew all, you, too, would blame me—perhaps even more than I deserve—though I have cruelly wronged you," she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.
"You, Helen? Impossible!"
"Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your attachment—I thought—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be."
"Or as yours?"
"Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, superficial nature that—"
