“Just before you went to college, when you told me that you were glad you had been cast adrift upon the world.” “I remember—when I said but for that I should never have known you. It was very hard for me, then, not to tell you how well I loved you, but I believed I did conceal it. Did it trouble you, Gladys?” “N—o; still I was taken by surprise. I had never thought of loving you in that way, or of your regarding me other than as a sister,” Gladys replied, gravely. “Then it set you thinking and you have been learning to love me since that time?” Geoffrey asked, fondly. “Not exactly ‘learning to love,’ Geoff, but I began then to realize the fact that I did love you,” the young girl confessed, with brilliant cheeks. Geoffrey bent and kissed her red lips. “Darling, I am glad I did not dare tell you then—I should have been very premature,” he said, tenderly. “How does it happen that you have ‘dared’ even now?” she asked, roguishly. “Because I confessed everything to Uncle August this morning, and he bade me come and win my bride if I could,” was the smiling retort. “Geoff! did papa say that,” cried the young girl, growing crimson again. “Yes, those very words. Uncle August is a kingly man, and his permission to let me speak to you has raised me from the depths of despair to the very heights of joy.” “Oh, Geoffrey, what an ardent figure of speech!” laughed the happy girl. “Indeed it is not a figure at all, you sweet, brown-eyed fay. I did not sleep a wink last night for wretchedness of mind.” “And all for nothing, Geoff.” “It was the fear of losing you, my darling. When I saw you so admired in these very rooms last night, I said to myself, ‘some one else will win her before I shall have any right to speak so,’ after lying awake all night, I desperately resolved to make a clean breast of everything to Uncle August. If he had told me he was unwilling to give you to me I should never have come to Brooklyn again.” “Geoffrey,” cried Gladys, clinging to him, “you would not have left us like that.” “I should, dear,” he answered, firmly; “I could not have remained in the same house with you and know that I must never, by either word or look, reveal the love I bear you. But all that is past. Uncle August seems even happy in the prospect of our union. You love me—you are sure you love me well enough, Gladys, to become my wife, with no regret for—anything?” he pleaded, bending to look searchingly into her eyes. “Yes, I am sure, Geoffrey. I have never tried to analyze the affection which I have always cherished for you, but I know, now, that it has not been of that calm nature which a sister would feel for her brother. I have been happier at your coming, I have been lonely and have drooped whenever you went from home, and I can understand now why it has been so,” Gladys answered, dropping her head again upon her lover’s breast.