"And if the drowning man cries?" said he. "It is only a breath. The waves go over him, and the world is at peace. And oh! do you know that I have taken a strange fancy of late--But I will not trouble you with that; you may hear of it afterward; you will understand, and know you have no blame, and there is an end of trouble. It is quite strange what fancies get into one's head when one is--sick--heart-sick. Do you know what I thought this morning? Will you believe it? Will you let the drowning man cry out in his madness? Why, I said to myself, 'Up now, and have courage! Up now, and be brave, and win a bride as they used to do in the old stories.' And it was you--it was you--my madness thought of. 'You will tell her,' I said to myself, 'of all the love and the worship you have for her, and your thinking of her by day and by night; and she is a woman, and she will have pity. And then in her surprise--why--' But then you came into the room--it is only a little while ago--but it seems for ever and ever away now--and I have only pained you--" She sprang to her feet; her face white, her lips proud and determined. And for a second she put her hands on his shoulders; and the wet, full, piteous eyes met his. But as rapidly she withdrew them--almost shuddering--and turned, away; and her hands were apart, each clasped, and she bowed her head. Gertrude White had never acted like that on any stage. And as for him, he stood absolutely dazed for a moment, not daring to think what that involuntary action might mean. He stepped forward, with a pale face and a bewildered air, and caught her hand. Her face she sheltered with the other, and she was sobbing bitterly. "Gertrude," he said, "what is it? What do you mean?" The broken voice answered, though her face was turned aside,-- "It is I who am miserable." "You who are miserable?" She turned and looked fair into his face, with her eyes all wet, and beautiful, and piteous. "Can't you see? Don't you understand?" she said "Oh, my good friend! of all the men in the world, you are the very last I would bring trouble to. And I cannot be a hypocrite with you. I feared something of this; and now the misery is that I cannot say to you, 'Here, take my hand. It is yours. You have won your bride.' I cannot do it. If we were both differently situated, it might be otherwise--" "It might be otherwise!" he exclaimed, with a sudden wonder. "Gertrude, what do you mean? Situated? Is it only that? Look me in the face, now, and as you are a true woman tell me--if we were both free from all situation--if there were no difficulties--nothing to be thought of--could you give yourself to me? Would you really become my wife--you who have all the world flattering you?" She dared not look him in the face. There was something about the vehemence of his manner that almost terrified her. But she answered bravely, in the sweet, low, trembling voice, and with downcast eyes,--