“Perhaps I am taking a great liberty, Miss Huntress,” he began, before she could utter a word of protest, “but I must bid you good-night presently, and I have something very important which I wish to say to you first.” Gladys shivered at his words, although the night was intensely warm, for instinctively she knew why he had brought her there. But she could not help herself now, and she thought perhaps it would be best to have their future relations definitely settled once for all. “I am obliged to return to New York on the midnight train,” the young man continued, “but I could not go without first telling you what has long been burning on my lips for utterance. Gladys, I love you, and all my future happiness depends upon my winning you to be my wife. Will you give me your love in return? will you give me yourself?” It was a manly, straightforward declaration, and worthy a better man than Everet Mapleson was at that time. It impressed Gladys as being earnest and genuine, and she was grieved to know that she must wound and disappoint him. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Mapleson, that you should have said this to me,” she returned, in a low, pained tone, “for I cannot respond as you desire; my answer must be a decided refusal of your suit.” “Do not say that!” he burst out in an agonized tone. “Oh, my darling, you must not ruin my life with one fatal blow. Let me wait—ever so long, if I may only hope that some day you will be mine.” “I cannot let you hope,” Gladys replied, greatly agitated, “what I have said must be final. I do not love you—I can never become your wife.” “Perhaps you do not love me now, but you can learn to do so; I will teach you. I will be very patient; I will not press you. Oh, Gladys, my beautiful, brown-haired darling, do not break my heart! do not ruin my life!” A quivering sigh burst from the young girl’s pale lips. No one can tell how painful the interview had become to her, for she saw that he was a lover in deadly earnest, and that his affection for her was deep and true. She impulsively reached out her hand and laid it upon his arm. “Mr. Mapleson,” she pleaded, “pray do not importune me further; for, truly, I can give you no other answer; my feelings can never change; I do not love you—I can never love you.” He seized her hand in an eager, trembling grasp, and bent his proud head until his forehead rested upon it. “Why do you say that?” he cried, “that you can never love me? You do not know. I will serve for you—I will prove my devotion; oh! give me time, Gladys, before you discard me utterly, and no slave ever served more faithfully for the coveted gift of freedom, than I will serve, in any way, to win you, my fair love.” “No, no; please say no more, it is useless,” she murmured, brokenly. He raised his head and looked eagerly into her face.