The man’s countenance changed, as if he had been smitten a sharp and sudden blow.
“Do not tell me that,” he breathed, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “I cannot bear it. I have lived too long with only this one hope to sustain me, to have it ruthlessly wrested from me at this late day.”
Something in the man’s tone—a sort of despairing, appealing note—sent a wave of pity coursing through Allison’s heart.
“I am sorry if I have pained you,” she faltered; “but—I cannot love you, Mr. Hubbard, and so I must not marry you.”
“I will make you love me, Allison,” he returned, with almost pathetic earnestness. “Out of the superabundance of my own affection I will nourish yours until your heart will turn to me as naturally as a flower turns to the sun.”
But Allison only shrank farther from him.
“It is impossible; it can never be,” she said, so decidedly there was no mistaking her determination to settle the matter for all time.
“Why?” he demanded, sharply, but with quivering lips. “Why can you never love me? How is it that you are so positive?”
“I do not know that I can tell you why; it is not easy to analyze one’s feelings,” Allison responded constrainedly. “I only know that I do not love you and that it would be a great sin to become your wife without loving you.”
“Then it must be because some one stands between us,” said John Hubbard, with jealous bitterness. “Tell me! Is is so? Do you love some one else?”