“I could never think your words other than the best,” he said, tenderly; and the little lady bowed her head before resuming.
“I will not be so foolish as to deny that in the past,” she went on, “there have been weak times when I may have thought that it would be a happy thing for a man whom a woman could reverence and respect as well as love to come and ask me to be his wife.”
“As I would always strive to make you respect me, Mary,” he said, softly; and he kissed her hand.
“I know you would,” she said, “but it cannot be.”
“Mary,” he cried, pleadingly, “I have waited and weighed all this, and asked myself whether it was vanity that made me think your dear eyes lighted up and that you were glad to see me when I came.”
“You did not deceive yourself,” she said, softly. “I was glad to see my dear brother’s friend when he first came, and that gladness has gone on increasing until, I confess to you freely, it will come upon me like some great sadness when the time is here for you to go away.”
“Say that again,” he cried, eagerly.
“Why should I?” she said, sadly.
“Then—then you do love me, Mary?”
“I—I think so,” she said, softly; and the little lady’s voice was very grave; “but love in this world has often to give way to duty.”