The path leading from the beachwood ridge ran through the inclosure, and upon this I was returning. There was a set of "bars" separating it from the woods behind; most of these were down, as we had left them on going out. I had stepped silently over, and was proceeding on toward the house, when voices, heard in conversation, caused me to come to a stop. There were two of them, both easily recognized. The first I heard was that of Nat Bradley, loud enough for me to make out the words, as also to tell to whom they were addressed.
I was too much interested in what was being said to feel either shame or reluctance at playing eavesdropper.
"You've made up your mind to that?"
I was not in time to catch the beginning of the speech, which appeared to be in the form of an interrogation.
The answer proved it to have been one.
"I have," was the reply, in a female voice—like that of Miss Woodley.
"I suppose you think I'm not rich enough; you intend to marry some grand fellow with a fortune, who can show you off? That's why you refuse me."
"Permit me to tell you, Mr. Nat Bradley, it has nothing to do with my refusing you."
"Come, Corneel; speak the truth; if it be only that, I can promise you that I too—"
"You need not make promises, I have spoken the truth, and once for all, I tell you that it is no use your asking me again. I have said it once before, I now say it again; Nat Bradley, I can never be your wife."