"
"Your words are truer than you think," she replied, the pallor
deepening in her face. "I have suffered a strange, cruel form of
martyrdom. But I am not a saint, only a weak woman. I would value
such a friend as you could be exceedingly. Indeed--indeed," she
continued hesitatingly, "there are peculiar reasons why I wish
we might meet as friends occasionally. If you knew--if you knew
all--you would not ask to be more. Can you trust one who is clouded
by sadness and mystery?"
He took her hand in both of his and answered, "Jennie Burton,
there could no greater misfortune befall me than to lose my faith
in you. I associate you with all that is most sacred to me. Every
instinct of my heart assures me that although the mystery that
enshrouds your life may be as cold as death, it is, as far as you
are concerned, as white as snow."
"Yes, and as far as another is concerned also," she said
solemnly. "Your trust is generous, and I am very, very grateful.
Perhaps--possibly I may--some time--tell you, for you risked your
life for me; and--and--there is another reason. But I have never
spoken of it yet. Good-night."
"Stay," he said, "I cannot begin being a true friend to you by
being a false friend to another.
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