“I have loved you,” she whispered, “ever since that night,--the first time I saw you here, in my father’s house.” “Now, sir!” she added, with her sudden, pretty willfulness, “make the most of it. I’m not ashamed of it, either. But I shall be ashamed of _you_ if--this--if after I’ve said it _all_, it doesn’t make you happy.... That’s all I care for,” she said quietly. “It is all I care for in this world.” “Oh, what shall we do?” pleaded Bayard. “You have your work,” said Helen dreamily, “and I your love.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Is that enough for you?” demanded the man. “I shall perish of it, I shall perish!” Something in his tone and expression caused Helen to regard him keenly. He looked so wasted, so haggard, that her heart stood still, and said to her,--“This is truer than he knows.” “No,” she answered with a sweet, womanly composure, “it is not enough for me.” “And yet,” he said with the brutality of the tormented, “I cannot, I must not, ask you to be my”-- She put the tips of her fingers to his lips to check the word. He seized her hand and held it there; then, for he came to himself, he relinquished it, and laid it down. “Dear,” said Helen, “I shouldn’t mind it ... to be poor. I want you to understand--to know how it is. I have never felt ... any other way. It shall be just as you say,” she added with a gentleness which gave a beautiful dignity to her words. “We need not ... do it, because I say this. But I wanted you to know--that I was not _afraid_ of a hard life with you.” “Oh, you cannot understand,” he groaned. “It is no picturesque poverty you would have to meet. It would mean cold, hunger, misery you’ve never thought of, cruel suffering--for you. It would mean all that a man has no right to ask a woman to endure for him, _because_ he loves her ... as I love you.” “I could starve,” said Helen. “God help us!” cried the man. Nothing else came to his dry lips. Then Helen answered him in these strong and quiet words: “I told you I would trust you, and I shall do it to the end. When you are ready for me, I shall come. I am not afraid--of anything, except that you should suffer and that I could not comfort you. If you never see the way to think it right ... I can wait. I love you; and I am yours to take or leave.” “This,” whispered Bayard reverently, for he could have knelt before her, “is a woman’s love! I am unworthy of it--and of you.” “Oh, there is the other kind of woman,” said Helen, trying rather unsuccessfully to smile. “This is only _my_ way of loving. I am not ashamed of it.” “Ashamed of it? It honors you! It glorifies you!” He held out his arms; but she did not swerve towards them; they dropped. She seemed to him encompassed in a shining cloud, in which her own celestial tenderness and candor had wrapped and protected her. “Love me!” he pleaded. “Love me, trust me, till we can think. I must do right by _you_, whatever it means to _me_.”