“Miss Dora,” said Fredrich Weimher, gayly, “I have not yet offered you my congratulations. Permit me to do so now.”
“I thank you, my friend, for I believe you sincere; which can be said of very few out of the many who are here to-night.”
“All seem happy, nevertheless,” he replied.
“Yes,” replied Dora, half regretfully. “And I am happy, while at the same time I am sad. I long to visit the old world, and yet it makes me almost homesick to leave my native land, though I have not many kindred ties to bind me here.”
“Your friends will miss you sadly, Miss Dupont.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Weimher, and I may reckon you among them, I trust,” she replied, smiling archly up at him.
“A friend! Oh, Dora, pardon me, but I can be still no longer. I brought you out here to speak my farewell, for I could not say it when others were looking coldly on; and does not your heart tell you that I had more than a formal farewell to say? Does it not tell you that I am more than a friend? It is a cold word to apply to me, who loves you as deeply as I do. Do not hide your face, my darling, but give, oh, give me the love I crave.”
He would have taken her hand, but she held it from him, while a look of pain swept over her fair face.
“Oh, Dora,” he went on, while a shade of keen disappointment clouded his eyes, “have you not seen how dear you have become to me, how I have fed and lived upon your smile? Has your heart no welcome for me? You do not answer. Oh, my love, my love! do not send me from you, I pray! Give me what I ask, else my heart will break.”
“Fredrich,” she began, and then hesitated.