"I would rather you said now, Mr. Sheppard, whatever you wish to say to me."
"It is only the old story. Have you reconsidered your determination—you remember that last day—in Keeton? I am still the same."
"So am I, Mr. Sheppard."
"But things have changed—many things; and you may want a home; and you may grow tired of this kind of life—and I shan't be a person to be ashamed of, Minola! I am going to be in Parliament, and you shall hear me speak—and I know I shall get on. I have great patience. I succeed in everything—I really do."
She smiled sadly and shook her head.
"In everything else I do assure you, so far—and I may even in that; I must, for I have set my heart upon it."
She turned to him with a glance of scorn and anger. But his face was so full of genuine emotion, of anxiety and passion and pain, that its handsome commonplace character became almost poetic. His lips were quivering; and she could see drops of moisture on his shining forehead, and his eyes were positively glittering as if in tears.
"Don't speak harshly to me," he pleaded; "for I don't deserve it. I love you with all my heart, and today more than ever—a thousand times more—for you have shown yourself so generous and forgiving—and—and like a Christian."
Then for the first time the thought came, a conviction, into her mind—"He really is sincere!" A great wave of new compassion swept away all other emotions.
"Mr. Sheppard," she said in softened tones, "I do ask of you not to say any more of this. I couldn't love you even if I tried, and why should you wish me to try? I am not worth all this—I tell you with all my heart that I am not worth it, and that you would think so one day if I were foolish enough to—to listen to you. Oh! indeed you are better without me! I wish you every success and happiness. I don't want to marry."