Alice had never before heard a voice so earnest, so full of meaning, as the one now pleading with her to be what she could not be, and a pang keener than any she had ever felt, or believed it possible for her to feel, shot through her heart as the dread conviction was forced upon her that she was to blame for all this. She had misled him, unwittingly, it is true, but that did not help him now; the harm, the wrong were just the same, and they loomed up before her in all their appalling magnitude. What could she do to atone? Alas! there was nothing except to be what he asked, and that she could not do. She could not be Hugh’s wife. She would as soon have married her brother, if she had one. But she must do something, and sliding from her stool she sank upon her knees—her proper attitude—upon her knees before Hugh, whom she had wronged so terribly, and burying her face in Hugh’s own hands, she sobbed, “Oh, Hugh, Hugh, you don’t know what you ask. I love you dearly, but only as my brother—believe me, Hugh, only as a brother. I wanted one so much—one of my own, I mean; but God denied that wish, and gave me you instead. I did not like you at first—that is, before I saw you. I was sorry you were here, but I got over that. I pitied first, and then I came to like or love you so much, but only as my brother; and if I let you see that love, it was because it is my nature to caress those whom I love—because I thought you understood that ’twas only as my brother. I cannot be your wife. I—oh, Hugh, forgive me for making you so unhappy. I’m sorry I ever came here, but I cannot go away. I’ve learned to love my Kentucky home. Let me stay just the same. Let me really be what I thought I was, your sister. You will not send me away?” She looked up at him now, but quickly turned away, for the expression of his white, haggard face was more than she could bear, and she knew there was a pain, keener than any she had felt, a pang which must be terrible, to crush a strong man as Hugh was crushed. “Forgive me, Hugh,” she said, as he did not speak, but sat gazing at her in a kind of stunned bewilderment. “You would not have me for your wife, if I did not love you?” “Never, Alice, never!” he answered; “but it is not any easier to bear. I don’t know why I asked you, why I dared hope that you could think of me. I might have known you could not. Nobody does. I cannot win their love. I don’t know how.” He put her gently from him, and arose to leave the room, but something mastered his will, and brought him back again to where she knelt, her face upon his chair, as she silently prayed to know just what was right. Something she had said about his sending her away rang in his ears, and he felt that the knowing she was gone would be the bitterest dreg in all the bitter cup, so he said to her, entreatingly— “Alice, I know you cannot be my wife—I do not expect it now, but I want you here all the same. Promise that you will stay, at least until my rival claims you.”