“It will be better so,” he ruminated. “It would be selfish of me to shuffle off this mortal coil without doing some one good deed for the benefit of some human being; and what better act could I do than marry this child, that she may, in accordance with the will, receive the great fortune which otherwise she must miss, and be thrown, penniless, upon the world? Directly after the ceremony I can explain to her that I am the John Dinsmore whom she dreaded so, and then quietly go away, waiving all of my rights to the inheritance in her favor.” “Of what are you thinking, Mr. Moore?” she asks, wistfully. “Whatever it is,” she adds, slowly, “it is almost making you cry again.” “I was thinking of you, and trying to decide your future,” he answers, slowly, “and it culminated into the one question I now ask you: Will you be my wife?” “Your wife!” she gasps, wondering if she has heard aright, and believing she must be in some strange, sweet dream from which she will awaken in another instant. He nods, dumbly. It is a great effort for him to utter the words, and his lips refuse to repeat them. “Do you really mean it, Mr. Moore?” Again his lips refuse to perform their service, and he nods assent, almost regretting the proposal, now that it has been uttered and is past the power of being recalled. He does not look at her, or he would see how the warm blood has leaped into the rosebud face, and the round, dimpled cheeks have taken on a carnation hue, and the dark eyes are shining like stars. Nor does he know that those words have called her young heart from her bosom in a great, warm gush of love. He thinks more of her than she ever dreamed he did, she is telling herself, as she puts one hand over her fluttering, little heart, while the other creeps up to her blushing face. Indeed, under the circumstances, and taking the girl’s ignorance of life and the world into consideration, she should not be blamed for not realizing that there are other motives than affection which actuate men’s actions at times, and that this was one of them. His wife! He must love her well to ask her to be that, and the blood--which has been flowing so sluggishly in her veins ever since she has read in Mrs. Bryson’s letter to her that on the following day her visit would be brought to a close--leaps wildly now, and her heart gives a great bound, and goes out to her companion warmed with the fire of a young girl’s first love. “What is your answer, little Jess?” he asked, with an effort. “Is it yes--or no?” For answer, she throws herself into his arms, like the impulsive child that she is, and, clinging to him, cries: “Oh, I am so happy--yes, I will marry you, Mr. Moore. But, oh! won’t they be surprised at Blackheath Hall, for they think I am to marry that horrid Mr. John Dinsmore, whom I perfectly hate.” He holds her off at arm’s length, and his keen eyes read her face scrutinizingly, as he says, slowly, anxiously: