He was not presuming in his attentions; he never forced his society upon her; yet, with a patience and faithfulness that deserved a better return, he waited and hoped.
“If you would but give me the least ray of hope that I may eventually win your love, Miss Editha; my life will be ruined without the crown of your love,” he had ventured to urge once more, in a sorrowful kind of way, on the last evening of her stay at Newport.
He had heard she was going on the morrow and he could not bear it; he must put his fate to the test once more and for the last time.
“Mr. Tressalia,” she entreated, in a pained voice, “what shall I tell you to make you understand that it cannot be?”
“There could be only one thing that you could tell me that would destroy every gleam of hope.”
“And that?” she interrupted, with a quick breath and a fluttering of her white lids.
“That your love is given to another,” he said, passionately, and searching, with sudden foreboding, the beautiful face he loved so well.
The rich blood surged instantly over cheek brow, and neck.
Could she confess that she loved another, when that love was as yet unspoken even to its object?
And yet she must not go away and leave him to feed on a hopeless passion.