It might be thought that Paul Tressalia was lacking in either pride for himself or proper respect for the woman he professed to love, by being so persistent but it was the one passion of his life, although he was thirty years of age, and he could not easily yield to her gentle though firm refusal, particularly when Mr. Dalton told him he must eventually overcome her objections if he was patient. He was not presuming in his attentions; he never forced his society upon her; yet, with a patience and faithfulness that deserved a better return, he waited and hoped. “If you would but give me the least ray of hope that I may eventually win your love, Miss Editha; my life will be _ruined_ without the crown of your love,” he had ventured to urge once more, in a sorrowful kind of way, on the last evening of her stay at Newport. He had heard she was going on the morrow and he could not bear it; he _must_ put his fate to the test once more and for the last time. “Mr. Tressalia,” she entreated, in a pained voice, “what _shall_ I tell you to make you understand that it cannot be?” “There could be only _one_ thing that you could tell me that would destroy every gleam of hope.” “And that?” she interrupted, with a quick breath and a fluttering of her white lids. “That your love is given to another,” he said, passionately, and searching, with sudden foreboding, the beautiful face he loved so well. The rich blood surged instantly over cheek brow, and neck. Could she confess that she loved another, when that love was as yet unspoken even to its object? And yet she must not go away and leave him to feed on a hopeless passion. Would it be maidenly? Would it be proper? “Editha, have I been deceived all this while? Have I been persecuting you with my attentions, while you loved another?” he cried, in consternation, as he marked that startled flush, and intuitively knew its cause. She looked up into his white, pained face, and pitied him from the depths of her tender heart. “Mr. Tressalia,” she said, with sudden resolution, “it is cruel to allow you to hope when there is no hope. I will make you my confidant. You are noble and good, and you will not betray my trust. What you have said—is true.” Her voice was low, and sweet, and tremulous, as she confessed it, but her face was dyed with hottest blushes. “You _do_ love some one else?” he cried, in a hollow voice, his noble face growing gray and sharp with agony. “Yes,” she whispered, “but only the exigency of the case would force me to confess it.” And then she told him frankly all the story of her early regard for Earle Wayne—his misfortune and patient endurance for another’s crime—of his return, and of their mutual though unspoken affection for each other. “Earle Wayne!” he repeated with a start. “Who is he? Where did he come from?” he demanded, with eager interest, as she spoke his name.