"Thank you, Fred. Wait a moment in the dining-room. Fanny is with her, and I must call her away."
Presently Fred Cornwall entered the room in which Phœbe was sitting. She looked at him gratefully and tenderly; an angelic spirit of resolution was depicted in her face.
"Phœbe, my darling Phœbe!" he murmured, as he sat by her side and took her hand; and then he was overcome by her delicate, fragile appearance, and it was as much as he could do to prevent the tears running down his face.
She gently disengaged her hand.
"Why do you take your hand away, Phœbe? Let me hold it. Give it to me of your own free-will."
"No, Mr. Cornwall," she said, in a low, sweet tone. "I cannot—I must not."
Again "Mr. Cornwall"! He looked at her reproachfully.
"Do you no longer love me, Phœbe, that you are so changed toward me?"
She was compelled to pause before she could answer him.
"You must not ask me to reply to that question," she then said—"for pity's sake!"