“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?” he asked this morning. “Will you run away again?”

“It entirely depends upon your own conduct.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good.”

“But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not ‘run away’: you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I please, and take my son with me.”

“Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a variety of professions, which I rather coldly checked.

“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he.

“Yes⁠—I have forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you once did⁠—and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again. By what I have done for you, you may judge of what I will do⁠—if it be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel kindly towards you, it is deeds not words which must purchase my affection and esteem.”