“Can man forswear his soul?” he cried, harshly, while his tight grasp of her hands gave her pain.
“Do not hurt me, Junius!” she cried, trying to free her hands. He released her, and sat down in his chair.
“I did not mean to hurt you, Mollie. I am torn by contending passions of right and wrong. My soul is athirst. I long to quench its burning fires, but dare not speak my thoughts. Alone in a new world, I am barren of kith or kin to fill the aching void in my heart. And, though knowing this, yet am I bound by chains of honor, respect and manly devotion from speaking the words which might, perchance, secure me that greatest of God’s blessings to man, a woman’s love.”
He bowed his head, and remained silent.
Mollie Craft was no child, no affected school-girl, nor hardened society woman. She was a true, noble-hearted being, and read this man’s secret without his lips framing its confession: he loved her.
With sorrow in her voice, she said:
“Junius, you are not alone in the world. You have a father, mother, brother, and sister, though not of the same blood, yet are they as loving as your own relatives could be.”
“I know,” he returned; “but my heart craves more—a being like you, Mollie, to love me and be loved by me in return.”
It was out. He had avowed his love, but not in such passionate terms as one would have used if a reply had been expected. He meant not to ask her heart and hand; he merely told her what his heart craved.
She made no answer; gave no reply.