"Chelda," he said, hoarsely, "I cannot marry you and stay here. You would not be willing. If I were to give up this church, if I were to go to some other—"
"Never, never," she said, vehemently. "You are not fitted for a clerical life. You are too high-strung, too proud. They are killing you here. They would do the same elsewhere."
He groaned miserably. Had the time come for his surrender? This fever of unrest was killing him, and if he persisted in staying he would rend his church in pieces and bring dishonour to the cause of religion. And yet, in spite of his proposal, he could never leave here to roam from place to place in search of a new flock.
"Chelda," he stammered, "I will decide to-night. Give me a little further time."
She pressed her glowing face against his arm. "No, Bernal, now, now—"
He was about to yield, to give an unconditional assent, when a voice came gently up the stairway, "Miss Chelda, Miss Chelda!"
The impassioned woman trembled in her lover's arms. Always an interruption from that persistent girl. Some day she would be revenged on her.
"I must not keep you," said Mr. Huntington, hurriedly. "I will see you to-morrow."
She went reluctantly from the room, casting a backward glance at him as he turned his nervously working face to the window.
"To-morrow, to-morrow, always to-morrow,—would to-day never come?" She passed a hand over her dark features. They resumed their usual expression of calm disguise, and she rejoined the circle below.