“I do know what I am doing. I am refusing a match which the world,—_your_ world, would say was far above me; but, Colonel Schuyler, poor as I am, and humble in position, I am rich in the feeling which will not let me sell myself for a name and a home. And if I accepted you it would be only for that. I respect you. I believe you to be sincere in your offer, and that you would try to make me happy, but you could not do it unless I loved you, and I do not; besides——” Here he stopped me, and took both my hands in his, and seemed almost tender and lovable as he said “Edith, I did not suppose you could love me so soon, but I hoped you might grow to it when you found how proud I was of you, and how I would try to make you happy.” “Colonel Schuyler,” I interrupted him, “you have talked of your pride in me, and your admiration of me, but you have said nothing of love. Answer me now, please. _Do_ you love me?” He wanted to say yes, I know, for his chin quivered, and there was in his face the look of one fighting with some principle hard to be overcome. In his case it was the principle of truth and right, and it conquered every other feeling, and compelled him to answer: “Perhaps not as you in your youth count love. Our acquaintance has been too short for that; but I can and I will; only give me a chance. Don’t decide now. I will not take it as a decision if you do. Wait till my return from the Continent, and then tell me what you will do. I had hoped to take you with me, and thought that the glories of Rome, seen by me twice before, would gain new interest with your eyes beside me. But my sister needs you; stay with her during my absence, and try to like me a little, and when I come back I know I can say to you, ‘Edith Lyle, I love you.’” I was touched and softened by his manner quite as much as by what he said, and I replied to him, gently: “Even then my answer must be the same. My love was buried years ago. I have a story to tell you of the past.” Again those dreadful fingers clutched my throat as I tried to tell him of Abelard, and my dead baby, buried I knew not where. My voice was gone, and my face, which was deadly pale, frightened him I know, for he led me to the window and pushed my hair from my brow and said to me: “Edith, please do not distress yourself with any tale of the past. You say you have loved and lost that love, and let that suffice. I suspected something of the kind, but you are not less desirable to me. _I_ have loved and lost, and in that respect we are even; so let nothing in the past deter you from giving me the answer I so much desire when I return to Oakwood. Godfrey is coming this way. I hear his whistle; so good-night, and Heaven bless you, Edith.” He pressed my hand and left the room just as Godfrey entered the door in another direction, singing softly when he saw me: