"So now you are going to settle down at Riversdale; your travels are
over?"
"Yes, they are over. I shall travel no more. I didn't find what I
sought."
"And what was that?"
And her words as she spoke them sounded to Owen passionate, tender,
and melancholy as the nightingale; and his words, too, seemed to
partake of the same passionate melancholy.
"Forgetfulness of you."
"So you wished to forget me? I am sorry."
"Sorry that I haven't forgotten you? That, Evelyn, is impossible for
me to believe; it isn't human to wish ourselves forgotten."
"No, Owen, I don't wish you to forget me, I am glad you have not; but
I am sorry there was any need for you to seek forgetfulness."
"And is there any need?"
"Yes, for the Evelyn you loved died years ago."
"Oh, Evelyn, don't say that; she is not dead?"
"Perhaps not altogether, a trace here and there, a slight flavour,
but not a woman who could bring you happiness as you understand
happiness, Owen."
"All the happiness I ever had I owe to you. How can I thank you for
those ten years?"
"But you paid for them with a great deal of sorrow."
"Had it not been for you, Evelyn, I shouldn't have lived at all.
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