She had been with them less than three months, but during that time she had grown to be the one woman in the world to him. He had learned to watch and live upon her every motion and expression, to listen eagerly for her footsteps and even the soft rustle of her clothing. The lightest sound of her voice, her very presence, thrilled him as nothing else had ever done before. He had lived a new life since her coming. He knew he was a better man for it. She had stirred into being new motives and purposes, and he was beginning to think of forsaking this idle way of living, and of trying to fit himself to be useful in the world, and worthy of her. And now she was being driven away like a criminal, and insulted by his own kin. If she should go away thus, with this dreadful cloud hanging over her, what would become of her? Who would take her in? His pulses throbbed wildly; he grew desperate with the thought. “You do not know? Will you let me tell you where to go?” he breathed, bending eagerly toward her, his face flushing hotly, and his eyes glowing with the wild love which moved him. She looked up a little surprised by his manner, and her clear eyes fell before his passionate gaze. “Darling,” he cried, seizing her little hands, “you do not know where to go? Come to me. My dear, my dear, you do not know how I have learned to love you since you came like a ray of light into this household. Come to me, Meta—be my wife, and no stain shall touch you; they shall not dare to breath aught against you; place your hand in mine, and I will plant myself between you and all harm. My love, my love, I have found you. I have seen many fair women, but now I have found my fate, the sweetest fate man ever found. Say, dearest, will you be my wife?” She sat before him white, and still, and dumb. “Brownie, you do not answer me. Will you not crown my life with the blessing of your love? They shall never harm you. We will go away where they cannot trouble you by so much as a word. Will you not speak and give me hope?” She drew back from him, pained and sorrowful. “Mr. Coolidge, if I speak at all, it must be to crush all hope of any such thing as you desire,” she said, sadly, with downcast eyes and crimson cheeks. “Meta! Miss Douglas! no!” he cried, hoarsely, his handsome face clouding with pain. “Yes, Mr. Coolidge; hard as it is for me to wound you thus, when you offer me the greatest homage a woman can ever receive—the love of an honest heart—yet I cannot bid you hope, for I do not love you in return.” “You have not had time to think of it. I have startled you with my abruptness; you do not know your own heart yet,” he said, his lips growing white and quivering. “I have not, indeed, had time to think, for I did not at once imagine that you cherished any such feelings toward me. But my heart does not respond to yours. No, Mr. Coolidge, I cannot be your wife.”