[CHAPTER VII.]
"A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
Cowley.
"O Wallace, forgive me! Not for worlds would I have hurt you so if—if I could have helped it." Mildred's voice was full of tears, and she ended with a sigh that was half a sob.
His head was turned away so that she could not catch so much as a glimpse of his face.
"It is just what I expected when you went away," he answered huskily; "but I don't blame you. I've always known I wasn't half good enough for such a girl as you."
"No, don't say that!" she cried, almost eagerly; "you are good enough for anybody, Wallace; you are noble and true and brave; and father says that with your talent and industry you are sure to make your mark in the world."
"What do I care for that now?" he returned bitterly. "You have been my inspiration, Mildred; it was for you—to win you and to make you rich and happy—that I have studied and toiled and planned, and now you are lost to me!" he groaned.
"O Wallace!" she murmured softly, "I had hoped yours was a higher ambition—that you had consecrated your time, talents, everything, to Him who gave them, and whose love is better beyond comparison than any or all earthly loves."
"You are right," he said, after a moment's silence, and his voice was low and humble, "it ought to be so; it shall be so henceforward. But—O Mildred, Mildred, what happiness can there be in life without you!"
"I will be your sister, Wallace; I have a real sisterly affection for you."