“It isn’t the first time I’ve advised you to take lessons from the Yankees,” said Margaret; “and as to Mr. Gaston’s being conceited, I really think he’s less so than you are, Charley, though he knows much more. As to his being a Yankee--well, yes, he is a Yankee, as we should say, and he’s a very capable and accomplished one. And as to the third point, of his being a dandy, you know very well he is simply a remarkably well-dressed man, whose appearance in your heart you admire, in spite of your tall talking. But what’s the use of all this? It isn’t dress, nor nationality, nor deportment even, that makes the man. Superficially, you two are very unlike, but I think the discrepancy as to your real natures is by no means so great. You are a pair of true and honorable gentlemen at heart--at least, I believe Mr. Gaston to be such, and I know you are, Charley.” She spoke in a tone of great gentleness for she knew that, before this interview ended, she must say words which would bruise his poor heart cruelly, and it was a kind and honest heart, which had long cherished for her a true and steadfast devotion By degrees she led him on to a quieter mood, and spoke to him gravely and earnestly of their future lives--his and hers--which, as she gently tried to show him, must needs lie apart. He had heard her utter these sad words before, but there was a difference--an absolute resolve in looks and tones that compelled him to realize that this time they were final. And yet she had never been so gentle and so kind. “I think too highly of you, Charley,” she said, when their interview was drawing to a close, “to believe that you will let this feeling for me ruin your life. There is so much a man may do! The very thought of it is tantalizing to a woman sometimes. Oh, Charley, be in earnest. It is all you lack. Do something--no matter what, so it is _work_, and do it faithfully and well. I think that, in itself, would make you almost happy. But don’t think about happiness. Indeed, I think that does not signify so very much. Think only of filling your place in the world and doing your duty to God and man, and happiness will come of itself.” When she sent him from her at last, the hope which had until now lived in his bosom was quite, quite dead, never to revive again; and yet, with the relinquishment of that hope, a new life seemed to spring up within him, which made him resolve, before he left her presence, that he would win her approval though he could never win her love. He knew he could not feel that he had ever possessed her entire approbation, and it was well worth striving for--better, he said to himself, as many another good man has said, in those first moments of sad renunciation, than another woman’s love.